Night Visions
by british-bossy
Summary: After Sherlock's death, his best friend Clara Oswald seems to be the only person to care about his brother Mycroft Holmes. In her worry she finds herself at his door every Sunday night. Myclara Mycroft Holmes x Clara Oswald (Clara left the Doctor after the events of "Deep Breath")
1. The first night

Night visions

The first night:

Clara Oswald was shaking. The cold wind pulled on her thin white blouse and hit her skin with all cruelty. She wasn't wearing a jacket. John had called her one hour ago and she had been walking trough London since then.

Sherlock Holmes was dead.

Her best friend had jumped off the roof of St. Barts hospital, before the doctor's eyes. The ex-soldier had called her afterwards and Clara found herself running through the streets. When the hospital came in sight, she could see a lot of police caps and a hearse.

The first person she recognized was Greg Lestrade. The DI was walking around, gesturing his arms wildly. When he saw her, he just shook his head. Clara felt invisible. Nobody seemed to take notice of her. When she finally found John, he was bearly able to speak.

"_He jumped, Clara. He just jumped."_

The words she wouldn't believe echoed through her head, swallowing her own footsteps on the nearly frozen pavement. She hugged herself more tightly and breathed hard. Her hands were already numb.

She didn't remember how she made it to his house. For John was with Mrs. Hudson back at Baker Street and Greg fully involved at work, who would think of Mycroft Holmes?

Clara didn't care how the older Holmes had learned about his dead sibling but he would know for sure. Yesterday, John had reliably informed her that Mycroft himself had provided information about Sherlock to his worst enemy: Jim Moriarty.

The memory of the night at the swimming pool made her shiver even more. Moriarty had used her as a living bomb and when Sherlock and John had arrived she had to say those horrible lines...

"_Didn't see that one, did you?"_

The high windows were dark, only a street lamp made her find her way up the stairs. She pressed the door bell with two numb fingers and waited. Nothing happened. Clara tried again with her flat hand against the bell this time. Still nothing. Oh, she would hit him! She would smack his face so hard, he wouldn't even remember her name! She pressed the bell again and lingered for about 7 seconds before she found herself banging against the heavy wooden door with her fist. It hurt like hell! Just before she could press the bell one more time, the door was opened.

"There is no need to blame the door, Miss Oswald", said Mycroft in a low voice. Clara was suprised that he himself opened the door. She had expected a house maid, a butler or even Anthea. She didn't answer and his eyes wandered down her body.

"You must be freezing", he stated and stepped aside to let her in. She couldn't keep her eyes off him when she entered the house. He looked tired. Far more tired then she had ever seen him. He had taken off his suit jacket, left in his open waistcoat, white shirt and suit trousers. His shoes were polished as usual as if he hadn't been outside all day. Had he not been at the morgue? Mycroft raised an eyebrow at her curious look but didn't say anything. He made his way through the corridor, turning to the right, where Clara could see the gleam of a fire.

She followed him into the living room, enlighted by the fireplace. Her cold skin began to prick in the warmth and she shook herself slightly, the cold still clinging to her clothes. Mycroft sat down on an armchair, a small table with an half empty brandy glass on it to his right. Clara sighed. She stood next to him. His eyes were fixed on the flames infront of him when he spoke.

"So, what can I do for you, Miss Oswald?"

She didn't know what to say. She felt small and helpless. There was a part of her that wanted to hug him and tell him that everything would be fine. Clara knew what it felt like to lose someone so close. Although the Holmes boys never seemed to really get along they were still brothers. Had been brothers.

Slowly she sat down on the stool infront of the armchair. He looked at her but his eyes seemed to be far away. Clara had noticed the strong attempt of the older Holmes to protect Sherlock at least trying to keep him out of trouble by giving him a task, giving him something to work. Even though Sherlock, John and even Lestrade did their best to avoid Mycroft, all of them under the impression that he was an arrogant snob, it had always been obvious to Clara that the man of the British Government actually cared for his little brother.

"_He's the most dangerous man you'll ever meet"_, Sherlock had once told her. And here he sat, his arms hanging, his shoulders sank down, his chest bearly moving under his thin breath. Mycroft Holmes looked everything but dangerous to her. When she didn't answer he reached for the brandy glass but hesitated, as if he was not sure if he really wanted it. Without another thought in mind Clara reached for his hand which was nearly jerked away.

"It's alright, don't worry", she whispered when she saw the slightly terrified look in his eyes. Mycroft Holmes was scared. Just like his brother he wasn't good at interacting with people. Even though Mycroft had always had more of a gentleman in her eyes in holding the door for her, while Sherlock would slam it right in her face if she didn't watch out. They both had their armours. Sherlock used to be rude to keep people away while Mycroft was polite and distant. When it came to physical touch they were both unable to cope. But in contrast to his little brother Mycroft Holmes didn't withdraw.

She took the glass out of his hand and placed it back on the small table. Surely he'd had enough for today. His expected protest didn't come, maybe he was too tired to argue. She took his hand in hers very slowly giving him time to change his mind if it was too much for him. Their fingers touched and Clara felt an electric vibrating under her skin. He watched their joining hands like a lion watched its prey. Ready to strike, prepared for hunting. His thumb came up and caressed the back of her hand lightly, like the brush of a feather, so gently.

"You are still freezing, Miss Oswald"

"Clara", her voice was shaking.

He looked at her, his expression unreadable.

"It's Clara", she repeated and put on a shy smile.

"Clara", he said as his fingers caressed her skin softly.


	2. The second night

The second night:

She would come back. He knew. Even though they hadn't seen each other for a week now, he knew she would knock on his door tonight. Not because she cared for him, of course not. Clara Oswald felt guilty for a reason he had not figured out, yet. Mycroft Holmes closed his notebook, rubbed his eyes and sighed.

_She didn't know._

His brother was alive and running his mission by taking down Moriarty's network just like him. Mycroft was still worried. There was no doubt that his younger brother with his proper intellect was able to do it. And still he woke up in the middle of the night, his mind wandered off to the most horrible cages with his brother inside them.

_He was not sentimental._

There was a certain risk that Sherlock would ruin the whole operation. He wouldn't, probably. He knew how much depended on his success even if Mycroft could have done it alone (he couldn't have). When he wasn't saving the British Empire he was busy searching for Moriarty's partners only to stumble across a battlefield his dear brother had caused only three hours ago. It was in these insuffrable moments when it felt like Sherlock was standing next to him again, insulting him in every way possible, trying to be smarter than him. Always annoying.

And everyone else thought him dead. That was how it was supposed to be. Everyone but him, Molly Hooper and a few others. So did Clara Oswald, schoolteacher at Coal Hill, a woman in her late twenties with a massive egomania and his brother's best friend. Sherlock had met her soon after the events with the woman while he was searching for a murderer in her class. Mycroft had found her on the same day, of course. He could tell when his brother was actually interested in a person. The first one had been John Watson.

He had her driven to an empty ware house. From the beginning Mycroft had noticed that Clara Oswald was a quick study. She understood better than most people did.

_The first meeting:_

_The car stopped infront of him. He tilted his head, when the door was opened and Miss Oswald climbed out. Climbing was what she actually had to do at her height. _

_Five foot one tall, allergic to bees, half-orphan, runner. So far he could tell from his information about her and her brave, strong steps towards him. When she was close enough, he read her expression: _

_confused, angry but more than anything else: curious. _

"_Good evening, Miss Oswald", he had greeted her with a smile. "I am sorry for interrupting your daily jogging routine". _

_Hands on her hips, her head tilted, so her ponytail swung around, she stood before him. She was wearing a black tang top, jogging pants and trainers. She was watching him closely, clearly thinking. Of course, her little brain wouldn't give her any correct answers about his person. "Actually", she began. Her voice was both: soft and selfsecure. – Interesting._

"_I couldn't even start it. Your pretty assistent who's name is clearly not Anthea asked me in the most friendly way to get in your car. Well, how could I refuse? Do you use her overwhelming charm on any of your...targets?" – Clever girl._

_Clara Oswald seemed to think a bit more successfully than most slow people did. He noticed her curious look on him. She was trying to read him. Mycroft knew himself an excellent liar, a very talented actor and a perfect manipulator. There had never been anyone able to read him. Nobody could, not even his own brother. He looked at her deep brown eyes which were insisting on answers. Well, he would give her a try. _

"_So, who do you think I am, Miss Oswald?"_

_She took a step further, her eyes not leaving his face. Her small height made her seem like a child, her head only reached up to his shoulder. The schoolteacher didn't even blink, she really focused. Mycroft thought it was fascinating seeing someone else do this but his brother and himself. Her mouth was slightly open, her breath calm. _

"_According to your three piece suit and your expensive tie, you must be someone important", she started. – Easy one, anyone could have known that._

_She glanced at his shoes and went on: "But you're not the front man who smiles into cameras, that's what your clothing and your body tell. You do your best to look neat but it's not about handsomeness or some status. You're way above that." _

_Mycroft kept his face blank. Although she was not bad, he gave her that. _

"_So," Clara went on. "You're the man who pulls the strings from behind. I think you might be...a politician, maybe. One of the secret ones. That's how you know about me and my jogging routine. You probably watch the public places of London." – Alright, she was good._

"_So, __according to your knowledge of my identity and the car that brought me here you must be…..James Bond. Well, without the whole weapon thing…." Her eyes wondered to his umbrella in his left hand and she pressed her lips, trying not to smile. _

_From the beginning she didn't give him too much power. Instead of bowing before his massive intellect and "minor position", she took their talks as some sort of game. Everytime he came for a visit to Baker Street, Clara Oswald had been there. And while Sherlock and John only rolled their eyes at the sound of his voice, she'd always given him a smile. A true one. As if she really intended to make him feel welcome. Nobody ever did that, well, nobody but his parents, unfortunately. _

_She had been the first one to ask him if he wanted something to drink, which earned her the confused looks of his brother.__ "This is not a bar, Clara"__, he'd said. __"Speedy's one level below!" __She had given him a severe look and a tap on his shoulder like she was talking to one of her students._

_"He's your brother, not Moriarty"_

_"No, he's worse than Moriarty!"_

_Worse than Moriarty.__ Even for Sherlock this had been more than rude. This one had been meant to hurt. Clara firmly believed that the younger Holmes didn't mean it but Mycroft knew better. There were times when the small woman behaved just like their mother. _

_"Oh, come on! Get yourselves together! You're brothers!"_

_If it was for Sherlock, he would have been an only child and that was the way he always acted like. So it was not unfounded when John and Clara at first couldn't see who Mycroft would possibly be. He knew, he was just the same. He never wanted a brother, especially none so stupid. But that had been before they had met other kids, normal kids. _

_The door bell disturbed his thoughts and he checked his watch. Half past nine. _

_He got up and walked through the corridor. It was almost tempting to make her wait a little longer, just to see when or if she would give up. No, he shook his head. She believed his brother dead. She was concerned about him. He was still wondering about the weird feeling towards this fact when he opened the door. She wore a jacket this time. The wind had messed up her hair. "Hi". She put on that shy smile again. He took a step aside to let her in. The door was closed and her jacket decreased. – Clara Oswald was unable to dress properly in winter. She always wore a skirt or a dress, he wondered if she even owned trousers. Why would a woman do that to herself? The young woman noticed his look at her dress and crossed her arms. "Something wrong?", she asked. _

_"I was just wondering why you torture yourself this way in wearing definitely the wrong clothes for this kind of weather". With that, he turned around and walked back trough the corridor. He heared her heels on the wooden floor and the sound being swallowed by the carpet of the living room afterwards. Preparing two glasses of whiskey on a sideboard, he stood with his back to her when her voice drifted towards him. "Ok, first of all, I took a cap to come here, which is why I didn't freeze. Besides, why do you care what I'm wearing? I always look this way, I go to work like this!". He turned around, one glass in each hand and looked down at her, raising an eyebrow. - __In that dress?_

_It was black with white points on it and ended just above her knees. She didn't look very serious, not like a teacher but a student at college, maybe. _

Before Clara could say another word, feeling definitely criticized by him, he handed her the glass. – _Not able to handle critics, in any way._

He raised his glass to her and drank while she only took a sip, clearly not used to it. She furrowed her eyebrows and licked her lips afterwards. "That's strong", she stated and looked at the liquid like some sort of poison. "I know", Mycroft took the glass out of her hand and placed it back on the sideboard. "Actually", she said. "I think whiskey is the eleventh most disgusting thing ever invented". He turned around and guestured her with his hand to sit down at the table, where his notebook lay. She sat down, not sure where to place her hands and ended up folding them. – _A few golden rings, some fashion, some meaningful; a small golden watch, clearly a gift of someone she loved; short finger nails, practical. _

"So, you have a list, then". It wasn't a question and she hesitated before she answered.

"Yes, there is a sort of list, in my head".

"What is number one?", he heard himself ask. He didn't even know why. It wasn't important to him. Trying to make conversation meant to ask questions but what did it matter?

She gave him a smile which tossed all matters of importance aside. Her eyes seemed to shine, her lips parted lightly and her cheeks rised. She was quite pretty, he realised. Well, in the way, prettiness went.

"Liquorice", she said. When he realised, he was staring at her, he looked down at his hands but couldn't fight a thin smile on his lips.

"I don't like liquorice, either."

But Sherlock did. He remembered at the age of 8, his little brother had stolen the back of sweets, sliced it open just enough to get the sticks of liquorice out and then glued it closed again, thinking nobody would notice. That arrogance. It had always been Sherlock's greatest mistake. An unbearable defect that almost killed him. Still could kill him.

Mycroft could feel her eyes on him. As the silence grew heavy between them she took a breath, louder than she had intended to and reached for his arm. Mycroft watched her fingers as they touched his wrist so carefully like it was made of porcelain. Did she think him weak?

"Mycroft?"

He should have withdrawn his hand but he didn't. For some reason she wanted to comfort him and there was no hope she'd let it be. Clara increased the pressure of her fingertips just the lightest and he looked up. Her brown eyes were wide.

"You okay?", she asked honestly concerned.

He didn't look at her when he said: "Yeah", embarrassed by the low and thin tone of his voice.

_He was not sentimental._

"Okay", her voice was soft, soothing. For god's sake, he wasn't a child! There was no need to be concerned.

_She didn't know._

He looked at her, searching her eyes. She streched her back, obviously uncomfortable with the way he watched her but she didn't withdraw her hand. "How are you?", he finally asked her. Her eyes widened as if he had stabbed her, a shock exploding behind her irises. Now she took her hand from his, placing both on her legs, looking down on them. She was hurt.

"Um,...I", she cleared her throat twice. "I'm doing okay, I mean,...I'm trying to move on, you know. Going to work and...stuff". – _She hadn't seen John since that day. Neither ad she been to Baker Street since then and she wasn't seeing any friends and family. Clara Oswald was hiding away._ _For nothing._

Her eyes filled with tears and she refused to look at him. As her tears rolled down her cheeks, she brushed them away with both of her hands, snuffeling. "Sorry. I'm sorry.", she managed. Mycroft stood up to fetch a tissue. Why did she have to be so emotional? Why did women always have to cry? He stood behind her chair and handed it over. She took it thankfully and wiped her tears away, trying to calm down. The politician found himself still standing behind her, his hands placed on the back of the chair. His fingers were only inches from the strands of her dark hair and when Clara bent her head to blow her nose it brushed against them. Her hair was so soft it almost felt like was an electric vibration on his skin and he quickly withdrew his hand and went back to his chair.

"Sorry,.." she said again and swallowed hard. She smiled only with her mouth. "Look at me, I'm crying like an idiot! Like that would change anything...", her voice broke and her tears came back, harder this time. It was then when Mycroft couldn't help himself anymore. He stood up, made a step towards her, placed his hands on her elbows and pulled her up against his chest. Clara buried her face in it and hugged her arms around his waist. Nobody who knew Mycroft Holmes would have believed it was actually him, standing there his arms wrapped around a crying woman. He carefully kept his hands on her back, not making contact with her hair or skin. That was inappropriate at the moment. She sobbed, pressing her body against his in desperation, holding on for dear life. He didn't say anything. He just stood there, held her and listened to her unsteady breath.


	3. The third night

The third night:

He hadn't asked her to come back or to stay away. So, she'd keep coming by on Sunday evenings. She was quite comfortable with the situation for he wasn't pushing her away and slowly seemed to let her in. Last week she couldn't keep it together and had found herself crying in his arms. He'd made her a cup of tea afterwards and she had left around midnight, feeling exhausted and ashamed of herself. Now, when she thought about it she could never imagine Mycroft Holmes hugging someone, not even his own brother, especially not his brother.

They both seemed really conflicted with physical touch, like it was disgusting to them. Clara had known such a person before.

The Doctor had regenerated and she had left him after the events in victorian London. She didn't know this man, struggled to trust him, to talk to him even. The feeling of safety and warmth had disappeared and she felt like a stranger inside of the TARDIS. When she had told him so, he had set her down in Glasgow, and for not asking too much of him, she hadn't pointed out that she wasn't home. She had hugged him goodbye and he had froze. Now she was sure that he had stopped breathing for a while, not that the Doctor needed to breathe but she had noticed. Neither the Holmes brothers or the Doctor had done so to be rude. They just weren't used to it.

Clara wondered at what age Sherlock had told his parents not to hug him in public anymore. Maybe they'd never done so. She didn't know anything about their parents, she realised. If they were still alive, that was.

It had been about a month after she'd left the Doctor when Sherlock Holmes and John Watson had run straight into her, well, into her classroom. The tall, darkhaired man had been under the impression that one of her students had been a murderer...

"_Alright, which one of you prepared the lethal injection?"_

...while his friend, a smaller blonde man had tried to convince him to leave.

"_Sherlock, come on! I don't think that 12-year-olds..."._

But that had stopped after he'd laid eyes on Clara. The army doctor had offered her his hand and smiled at her like he'd never seen a woman before.

She had pushed them out of the door, leaving the kids with some writing work to do and had politely told them to back off. John had literally pulled Sherlock out of the school and Clara had found herself glad when they had been gone.

But of course this had not been the end. Sherlock had found her the next day when she had walked to her motorcycle to drive home. They both had ended up on it, Sherlock was driving them through half London and in the end they had stopped an explosion at the tower of Big Ben. From that day on, Clara Oswald had been his friend and whenever he was into something strange and really dangerous he (or John) called her. She had found something like an alternative for her adventures with the Doctor. It appeared that she had a thing for dangerous people, Mycroft had told her so when they first met and Sherlock had deduced the same about her only three days after her first encounter with his older brother:

_When she came up the stairs that evening and entered the small flat of his, she found him in a waiting position standing close to the window, his back turned towards her. "Sit", he said. _

"_It's nice to see you, too", she replied and settled herself on the couch. "So", she stated. "Are we doing a case or what?"_

_He slowly turned towards her, his arms crossed. "You're abnormally attracted to dangerous situations", he told her as if he was diagnosing an illness. __Clara furrowed her eyebrows. Was that a trick?_

"_Well, since you constantly drag me into that sort of situations, I'm afraid I can't help it", she explained. "Anyway, I've known this situations before when the Doc-"_

"_I don't think you understand, Clara", Sherlock interrupted. "You keep on throwing yourself into this kind of situations like you don't even mind the fact that you could die." He gave her a very serious look and turned back to the window. "Same goes for people by the way"._

_At that Clara rose to her feet and stepped closer. "What do you mean: people?" He kept staring out of the window as he went on: "You're not only attracted to dangerous situations but also to dangerous people. I noticed when you first met Mycroft." She felt her heart skip a beat, swallowed and cursed herself silently. How could a name have such an effect on her? Still researching her thoughts, Sherlock turned to face her again. "And since my brother is the most dangerous man you'll ever meet, I'm afraid there will be a drama soon." She looked up at him knowing that denying in front of a Holmes was hopeless._

Alright! She definitely had a thing for danger and the feeling it got her. Her heart was pumping like mad inside of her chest, her blood raced through her veins with the adrenalin blistering. Running with the consulting detective and his army doctor, seeing London from a completely different point of view. The battlefield, as John called it. Sherlock Holmes had given her a purpose again. A reason to feel alive. And now he was dead. She still didn't know what to make of it when she stood at his brother's door again.

The pain of loss. She had suffered this pain before but this was different. It almost felt like she'd lost the Doctor again. It was in that moment when she realised that she had given up on him. She had tried to replace this impossible man from Gallifrey and now she had lost them both. The Doctor and Sherlock Holmes. And now she'd probably lose someone she'd never actually known. She had been visiting John today.

Earlier that day:

Clara sat down on the couch. There were cardboards all over the floor filled with books, papers and electric stuff. _His _stuff.

"So, you're moving out then?", John handed her a cup of tea and sat down on one of the boxes.

"Yeah", he took a sip of his tea and looked down. He was tired. Tired from crying, from the pain, the anger and the question: Why?

As the silence grew heavy between them, she took a deep breath. "I've been at Mycroft's last week". _And the week before._

John furrowed his brows. "What for?". It was obvious that he still thought Mycroft to be the enemy. She gave him an apologetic look. "John...he's his brother". Her voice was merely a whisper and John stood abruptly.

"Yes, he's his brother. A brother who sold him to his greatest enemy to protect his beloved crown!" He crashed the cup on the floor and walked around the livng room. Everything in front of his feet was kicked away sharply. Clara pulled her knees up the couch and decided to let him. He needed to let his anger out. "Moriarty wanted Sherlock destroyed", he shouted and pointed his finger on her. "And Mycroft, his dear brother gave him the munitions he needed! He put his bloody country above his brother!" With that he grasped the table and knocked it over. There was a shriek and when Clara looked towards the door she saw Mrs. Hudson standing there.

Clara rang the bell and hugged herself tightly but not because of the cold. She felt miserable. No matter where she went or who she was with, she always felt that way. It was like Sherlock had left them all without telling them what to do. It was childish, she knew. People died every day and left their friends and families behind. But this was different. This death could've been prevented. She was sure she could have stopped him from jumping. At least she would have tried. And so would have his brother. Wouldn't he?

Her mind betrayed her when Mycroft Holmes opened the door.

"Why didn't you save him?!"

He let out a heavy sigh, looked around the street and pulled her inside by her arm, closing the door behind her. She turned to face him. His expression was unreadable. She had been wrong. What a fool she had been to think he'd let her in. Mycroft Holmes let nobody in! He never would! "Why didn't you stop him? Why didn't you kill Moriarty when you got the chance? Why did Sherlock jump off this roof? Why was he even there?" She paused to breathe and looked at him. His chin was raised, his hands burrowed in his pockets, his eyes narrowed. He had his armour back on.

"These events were...beyond my influence, Miss Oswald", he stated coldly.

_Miss Oswald. _There it was. He treated her like a stranger again, trying to hide away the guilt that was eating him alive here and now. She could see the battle within his chest shining through his distant eyes. But he was lying. "You've had the chance to warn him. You've had all information you needed, you let Sherlock down!" She wasn't even sure where she was going with that. But in the end all she wanted from him was... A confession? A denial? An explanation? Mycroft sighed again and looked down at his shoes. "Indeed". Her eyes widened. He'd done it. He really had done it. John had been right.

"Why?", she heard herself ask. But did it matter?

"I had to choose between my brother's life and the safety of thousands of people and in the logical process it was the only thing I could do."

"Sacrifice your own brother?"

"Obviously, Miss Oswald"

"I told you, it's Clara!", she swallowed her tears and shook her head. He was still lying. He must have been lying!

"I don't believe you". At that Mycroft rose his head and gave her a confused look. She took a step towards him, unsure if she could see the truth or not. His face was hidden in the dim light of the corridor and she couldn't see him properly. When she took another step, he went back on an instant and found himself with his back against the wall. Clara stood in front of him, her eyes focused on his expression. He seemed uncomfortable, slightly terrified even but he didn't look away. "I'm sorry?" His hands were out of his pockets now clenched into fists by his sides. His chest rose and fell like he'd been running a mile. "I don't believe you", she repeated. "You did everything to protect Sherlock. Everything there was. You've checked on each person he ever was in contact with, you made sure that he had enough cases to work on before John was there. You'd have thrown yourself between him and a bullet if necessary. You'd have even blown up Westminster and the Buckingham Palace with the Queen and the Prime minister inside if it saved Sherlock."

She'd just ended her sentence when he grasped her arms, spun her around and pinned her between him and the wall staring down at her the rage burning in his eyes. "Don't you dare", his voice was merely a growl. Clara felt a shiver upon her back as he leaned in, his face only inches apart from hers. "Don't you ever dare to suggest something like that about me". His breath hit her face and his scent surrounded her. It was daunting. "You have no idea what I had done to my brother to save England", he hissed. The heat that was radiating from his body burned her skin and even though he scared her in that moment she made no attempt to get away. She wanted the truth, no matter how hard she'd have to fight for it.

No matter if she had to go against Mycroft Holmes.

His eyes were piercing hers, remembering her of frozen lakes. "I would have let a thousand butchers torture him to death if it saved the crown", he whispered. Clara felt her own fury take over, she raised her hand and slapped him across his face as hard as she could.

"You're lying!", she spat and felt a tear rolling down her cheek. When he turned back to her his glare was fiery. She raised her hand to slap him again but he caught both of her wrists instinctively and pinned them against the wall behind her. With her hands above her head there was nothing she could do. Clara tugged at her arms but it only made his grip tighten. His face was like stone, frozen in anger and his grip like iron. She had never seen him angry before, annoyed, yes, mostly about Sherlock but never like this. Not physically.

When had Mycroft Holmes ever lost his temper?

"Mycroft", her voice was quiet, still tugging at her arms, she looked up at him the tears of anger still filling her eyes. Suddenly behind his rage there was something else hidden in his expression. Something like confusion, maybe and he didn't seem to know how to deal with it. His chest was nearly against hers and she found herself still unable to look away from his eyes. Surrounded by his presence so clearly, by his warmth, his scent, his breath against her face. Her breathing became tight and her mind went blank. Then within a matter of seconds he loosened his grip around her wrists and slowly let go by stroking his left hand across her skin until their hands joined above her head, his other hand falling to his side. His eyes left hers and she slowly found her regular breathing again as he led their entangled fingers away from the wall. They kept touching, both not ready to let go yet. His face was blank again and the rage in his eyes had disappeared. Clara let out a sigh of relief and felt another tear landing on her cheek. She looked down, embarrassed by her weakness as his hand suddenly cupped her cheek lightly and the tear was brushed away by his thumb. She shivered at his touch and her knees felt mellow. "I'm sorry", he brought her hand to his lips and placed a kiss upon her knuckles. "Forgive me".

He refused to look at her, clearly ashamed of losing control this way and Clara found herself reaching for him, her hand placing on his arm, soothing him. That gesture seemed to make him feel worse, so she decided to take the lead again. She swallowed her shock, her fury and her tears and smiled at him. "Tea?".


	4. The fourth night

The fourth night:

_He'd almost told her._

_He'd lost control._

It was silent. The rain was pouring down at the outside of his bedroom window just like the warm water in the shower a few minutes ago. His hair was still damp, his skin hot against the cool material of the bedclothes. His mouth was a desert and however hard he tried he could not ignore the feeling of the huge gap in his stomach. His last decent meal had been three days ago and he had smoked too many cigarettes again. Although his lungs were tightening with each puff, giving him a literally breathtaking reminder of a close collapse, he kept on ignoring the obvious signs. A subconcious part of his brain seemed to think he did deserve that much. For the first time ever, Mycroft had lost control and had nearly given in to emotions.

Sentiment.

"_You'd have thrown yourself between him and a bullet if necessary. You'd even have blown up Westminster and the Buckingham Palace with the Queen and the Prime minister inside if it saved Sherlock"_

Of course he'd done so. Under the disguise of some terror cell or some sort of complot against Queen and country. She was in doubt. In doubt about his cold heart, his methods with Moriarty and Sherlock's death itself.

"_Why didn't you save him?"_

He was an excellent liar. But he had underestimated her insistence, or perhaps it was some kind of faith she had in him for reasons he still didn't understand.

Clara Oswald had slapped him. Not that it had hurt, he had barely felt it because the logical-thinking part of his brain had suddenly been pushed aside by one simple emotion: anger.

Mycroft had been angry before of course. Mostly with some idiots he had the misfortune to work with. Or his mother. But never this way.

He had found himself pressing her small body against the wall, not sure if he wanted to choke or to kiss her. Her wide brown eyes pleading with him to let her go were haunting him at nights since then. He knew, he was skating on thin ice. She had been shocked by his actions of course, he'd been so himself. He had given in to emotion, that wasn't supposed to happen. He had been dared many times before but Clara Oswald had a way of daring him which was driving him past his limits within seconds. When he had regained his control, he could barely hide his obvious embarrassement. Later that evening they had had tea, sat by the fireplace and enjoyed the silence. It wasn't uncomfortable with her, it never had been. Not even after this emotional outburst. Her presence was calming him. Knowing that she could talk about a lot of extraneous things and being clever at the same time, she could be silent as well without getting bored or nervous. He remembered now. Each time he'd dropped by at Baker Street, looking for his brother, whenever she had been there she had greeted him with a smile. While John and Sherlock only rolled their eyes and gave an exhausted sigh at the very sound of his voice, Clara had always given him a polite "Hello". Even if she was just following her well education, she'd made him feel less uninvited at his brother's place.

For the rest of the evening she hadn't made another try to ask him about Sherlock.

And now she wouldn't come back. How could she? He had probably scared her to death last week and if she knew what was good for her, she would stay away from him. But did he want her to? From the beginning he had pointed out that she was way more intelligent than his brother's usual choice of friends and she seemed a lot more open-minded.

A look at the clock told him it was half past seven. Before he thought twice, he got dressed and made a few phone calls. Then he called for his car.

When the driver parked in front of the house her flat was in, he pulled out his phone again. He looked out of the window, his gaze wandered up to the fifth floor, where the bathroom window must've been. It was dark. "Clara Oswald?", her voice reached his ear and he licked his lips. "It's Mycroft Holmes, are you at home?"

"Um, yeah. Why? What's wrong?"

"The car's standing on the west side of the building. Get yourself ready and come downstairs, please."

Her voice was clear but calm when she asked: "Mycroft, what's going on?"

"I want to show you something".

With that he hung up and kept his eyes fixed on the building. He counted to three. _One,...two,...three..._The window of her bathroom enlighted. Mycroft couldn't help but smile and sat back in his seat.

"So" Clara was sitting next to him, dressed in trousers which was new to him, a blouse and a nightblue coat. "What do you want to show me?". She smiled at him curiously, her eyes glimmering with anticipation. – _Curious, forgiving nature._

"Patience, Miss-", he stopped himself. "Clara. You will find out soon enough."

She punched him lightly against the shoulder. "Oh, come on! I'm not a child."

"But you are as curious as a child", he stated and kept his eyes in front of him. From the corner of his eyes he could see that she crossed her arms with ostentation.

"I'm not curious, I'm interested", she defended herself. "Which is a good thing by the way".

His lips twitched upwards and he looked at her. She had raised her eyebrows and chin, clearly trying to look serious. "I did not say it was a bad thing".

He watched her rolling lips turn into that beautiful smile of hers and all of a sudden her whole being seemed to shine. A smile to break down barriers.

In that moment the car stopped and Mycroft remembered to blink.

The rain had stopped. They were in the centre of the city, the sound of the rushing water of the Thames and the salty smell invaded their senses. He heard Clara take a deep breath next to him. Her eyes were closed for a brief moment as she took in the night. "May I", he offered her his arm. She gave him an enquiring look but then she took his arm and let him lead her towards the destination. When she realised where they were going she looked up at him in surprise. "London Eye, really?"

"Never tried?", he asked although he already knew the answer.

"No, but...how did you...No, no, I don't wanna know!", she shook her head but smiled.

He led her to the enclosure and held the door for her, again. He always did, for any woman, it was just polite. When they were both inside, the giant wheel began to turn. Clara didn't sit down but walked around, her eyes taking in everything they could spot. Especially, Mycroft noticed, the sky, the stars, the moon. She looked up at them, her eyes wide, her smile so happy like he'd never seen it before. It was more to her than just points at the night sky, she saw the truth behind it. The planets, the galaxies, foreign and undiscovered worlds.

_She sees wonders._

At the highest point the wheel stopped. It was the last week of January, the city was still decorated with christmas lights. It was a sea of glowing colours, each one different and special. Westminster was illuminated greatly, the bridges lighted the way over the dark river of this beautiful city. He watched Clara stepping closer to the glass front, touching it with her fingers. Mycroft stood next to her and pointed at the buldings. "Much more expensive than streetlamps", he explained, knowing he was ruining the moment. "The costs for the old ones have become immeasurable in the past five years, if a renewal would not be that costly as well it would have been renewed two years ago..."

"Mycroft, what is...", she gestured around the enclosure they were standing in. "...this?"

There was darkness around them and he was glad. The only way to hide his embarrassement from her although he was sure she already knew. He could feel her gaze on him but kept his eyes on the lights of London. "An apology", he said. She took a sharp breath, but remained silent. He buried his hands in his pockets and stretched his back. "My behaviour towards you was inappropriate, exaggerated and simply inexcusable. That shouldn't have happened and I can realiably inform you that it will never happen again. I do repent and I am really sorry." With that he turned to her and reached out his hand. Clara looked at it for a while but didn't respond. Would she reject him? Him? No, not him, his apology!

"Oh, come on!", she laughed and flung her arms around his neck instead. Mycroft was so surprised that he stumbled forward. Clara was hugging him. He didn't know what to say or what to do with his hands, so he kept them awkwardly at his sides, at least trying to lean in a bit. This was different from the night, he'd pulled her in, holding her while she was crying. She put all her forgiveness and her gratitude in this hug, pulled him down as far as she needed. He breathed in the scent of her hair and a sudden relief washed over him. His heart beat picked up and he closed his eyes for a moment. _Not enjoying it!_

There was nothing to be nervous about, she had accepted his apology. Her nature didn't seem to be resentful after all. But he couldn't shake off the feeling that came along with her embrace, a feeling of safety that almost made him shiver. She hugged him tightly, pressed her small figure against his body, standing on her tiptoes, her body heat radiating trough her left open coat. "I forgive you", she chuckled and lingered for another moment before she let go of him. He tried his best to smile but then he remembered that she couldn't see it anyway. They hadn't realised they were moving down again until they seperated. She took his arm naturally, again and leant her head against it. "Thank you, Mycroft", she whispered against his sleeve while they walked back to the car.

When he came home that night, he wondered which perfume Clara Oswald wore and why he wanted to know so badly.


	5. The fifth night

NOTES: at Wink: Wow, thank you sooo much for your lovely words! Never expected such a positive reaction!

In my version, Eleven never called Clara in „Deep Breath", just so to make it easier for her to leave Twelve (again, sorry! Love them, too!).

The fifth night:

Clara missed Sherlock, more than she ever intended to. It was not like she'd fallen into some sort of numbness or shock like she had when her mother passed away. It felt more like a constant hurt, a burn. Like a wound in the corner of your mouth that would heal if you'd stop tonguing it-but you can't.

She could not let go. Ignoring the pain, she went on with her every day routine, teaching at Coal Hill, running her usual route, paying her taxes and of course, avoiding everything and everyone who reminded her of Sherlock, except Mycroft. She kept on telling herself that he needed someone, needed her.

_He shouldn't be alone. He lost his brother. I lost a friend. _

There was no way for her to talk to Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, or John. It was too much. The harder she tried to ignore her sadness, the more it came up and almost overwhelmed her at the very sight of one of them. Because they were deeply sad, too. Clara couldn't even handle her own pain, how should she stand theirs as well? Especially John, who turned aggressive and smashed things to the ground. For some reason, she needed to talk to somebody who had been close to Sherlock but wasn't emotional about it. She almost felt like using Mycroft, using his cold and distant appearance to stop her own wild emotions from devouring her completely. Maybe he knew that, she wondered sometimes. How could he not? He was a genius who noticed everything. Perhaps this was why she always got so terribly nervous when she noticed the way he was watching her. With those intense, blue, clear, far too observant eyes which seemed to strip her bare, crawl underneath her skin, invading every part of her soul, finding all of her secrets. Clara found her heart race and her breath stuck in these moments and she almost enjoyed the shiver that ran up her spine when Mycroft did so. The best defence for her had always been a sassy smile and a mostly rethorical question about her nose or her make-up. He never responded to this but at least stopped his piercing gaze. He would take his hand from his chin then and sat back in his chair, changing the subject back to smalltalk. Releasing the tension.

She had noticed this tension between them when they'd first met, he was challenging her in every way possible, she would fight back in being the quickest on the comeback she'd ever been. They both wanted to take control and none of them would give it away easily. Someday she knew those rising forces would collide and crash into each other. She both feared and waited in anticipation for that day. Would Mycroft get out of his elegant, courteous, nearly victorian being and let emotions take over?

She had seen him doing it. Rage had taken over him and for the briefest moment she wasn't sure if he would go further than pressing her against the wall, not letting her go for just seconds. At first she had been scared, of course or well, surprised. But in the end he had been the one to feel embarrassed and truly sorry. He had proofed that much last week on London Eye and had got her with that. She had not expected for him to apologize at all and then he'd called her. He knew that Clara wasn't easily impressed. He had known within the first week after their first meeting:

_Clara stood in front of the avocados and held one of them in each hand. A bit softer and eat it all today? She was wondering about the texture when her phone buzzed. She put the softer fruit back to the others and took the firm one into her shoppingback._

„_Clara Oswald?"_

„_Miss Oswald, how are you?"_

„_Sorry, who is this?"_

„_It's Mycroft Holmes, Miss Oswald."_

„_Oh, hey,...what's up?"_

„_I'm terribly sorry for disturbing you but since Doctor Watson is not available I need you to come here at once."_

_Clara blinked. Had she misheard him?_

„_Why would you need me? What for? And why is John not available as you say?"_

„_Next to Doctor Watson you are the closest person to my brother, we need to talk about him. And the dear Doctor is on one of his malfunctioning dates which will turn out to be a huge disappointment as usual."_

„_How can you even say such a...Hang on, what's wrong with Sherlock?"_

„_I was going to ask you the same question, Miss Oswald."_

_Clara began to huff and stood with her hand on her hip. He couldn't be serious! _

„_Look, I'm...I'm doing shopping right now!"_

„_I know", his voice was calm. „Yellow suits you."_

_Her eyes went wide and she looked down on herself. He couldn't know!_

„_I'm...sorry?"_

„_The colour of your dress, it suits you."_

_She raised her eyes and tried as inconspicuous as possible to look around the supermarket. _

„_Thank you...", she said and looked for someone in the crowd who might be a spy. _

„_The camera's behind you, top left. Can you see it?"_

_When Clara spotted the camera it was turning slowly to the right and left. She raised her chin and looked directly into the lens._

„_Very impressive, Mycroft, really. But don't worry, John has told me about the little camera tricks you did before the two of you first met. And you and I have already met, so there's really no need to play this game of showing-how-powerful-I-am on me."_

_She heard a silent sound and thought briefly that he could have smiled. _

„_I know you are not easy to impress, Miss Oswald. You compared me to James Bond when we first met and you were not the slightest bit afraid or nervous."_

_Clara turned away from the camera to hide her bright smile. She remembered. _

„_Well, to be honest, Mycroft, you don't look that scary."_

„_Thank you, Miss Oswald. Now, I need you."_

„_Sorry, what?"_

„_I need you to talk about Sherlock with me."_

„_Oh, well,...", she paused. „I can't. I've got lots of work to do, you know, prepare two class tests, wash the dishes, finish my shopping...Sorry, I'm not available either."_

„_Miss Oswald..."_

„_Goodbye, Mycroft."_

It had been a little bit rude of her to hang up after that. But he'd never complained. Clara had learned from Sherlock that you mustn't take a Holmes too seriously. They both sometimes needed a little reminder that the world kept on turning without them. And if there was something like heaven, Sherlock must've found out lately. 5 weeks. It felt like yesterday and eternity as well. And today she would visit his grave for the first time. She hadn't been to the funeral. How could she have done that? It was just formality, Sherlock himself had once pointed out so but nonetheless it had been his funeral.

The sun met the drizzling rain and the ground was steaming. She walked across the cemetery, her eyes searching her best friend's name. While most of her friends found cemeterys scary, Clara had liked the silence there. Besides there was history in the stones, some of them over a hundred years old. She always wondered who those people had been. Were they still remembered by someone? The Doctor whould remember them. Clara shook her head.

_Don't think about him right now! It will only make you cry!_

She missed him, of course, she missed him. She often wondered where he was, what he was doing, if he was okay. But she calmed herself with the memory of that one night, the TARDIS had deleted her bedroom for the first time and showed her the Doctor's previous companions. He'd had pretty young girls flying off with him before her, so there would be many of them after her as well. Those years she had spent with the Doctor were just a heartbeat in his whole existence. He had lived long before her and he would still be going on when she was dust. Maybe she'd lay on this cemetery, too one day. The wet grass brushed her shoes and she stopped in front of a shining black gravestone with golden letters on it: SHERLOCK HOLMES.

It was just his name, no date, no quote. It was just his name, so simple and probably meaningless to strangers, yet it meant so much to Clara. This extraordinary name was the cause of so many adventures, crimes, murders, puzzles and riddles. She felt tears burn in her eyes and closed them for a minute. What could she say? Should she say anything at all?

Like in the movies when the protagonist speaks to the grave of someone he or she loved, wondering if this act was useless and mad. She crouched down and decided to whisper.

„Hey", she began and scolded herself right afterwards. Could she say anything right?

„John's moved out and...well, I've been seeing Mycroft for the past...weeks". It almost felt like she was making a confession. Sherlock wouldn't have liked the idea of her and his older brother meeting up without him. Just as with John, he'd seemed to fear that Mycroft could possibly alienate her. Sherlock had had a huge tenure towards his few friends. Back in Baskerville, where Lestrade had suddenly joined them, the detective had reacted almost furious to the news that Mycroft had sent the inspector after them.

„He didn't do that to control you, you know", she mused. „Well, yeah, that, too. But...he cared for you. He wanted to know you were protected, safe. He loved you."

She imagined Sherlock to protest in any way possible, calling his sibling names and explaining that Mycroft was a control freak who thought him in need of a babysitter. Which was true, she had to admit. But even with a babysitter Sherlock would do as he pleased. She smiled.

„I hope you're well, where ever you are. It's just...I miss you and...I wish this never happened".

She stood and walked away without looking back once more, her tears burning in her throat.

When she entered Mycroft's house this sunday evening, he acted differently, very strange, in fact. He took her coat and asked if she would like tea. „Yes, please", she said, her eyes watching him intensely. What was going on? He smiled, gestured her the way to the living room where a cup of tea was already prepared on the table. Clara sat down, still wondering about the sudden change in his behaviour. Was that still part of his apology?

„I hope you had an excellent week at work, Clara", he began while he sat back in his chair, his arms crossed. It was meant to seem like smalltalk but his eyes said something different. He looked as if he was ready to devour her like a ravening animal. Clara wouldn't dare to touch her tea this evening, she decided and folded her hands on the table. He tilted his head to the left and narrowed his eyes, waiting, reading, deducing maybe. „It was alright...", she finally answered. He said nothing, his eyes boring into hers with the intensity of a lightning. The previous times he had been stripping her down slowly, now he was ripping her apart. For some reason, Clara felt guilt rise in her stomach, it felt like a bulletball ready to explode. He tilted his head up again and leant forward. The time of civilness was over.

„The reason for our brief connection is gone and there is no reason left for you to have anything to do with me any longer.", he stated dryly, his face emotionless. Was he finally sending her away?

„So, for there is no need for us to stay in touch any longer, just tell me who you are."

Clara blinked. „Sorry?", she furrowed her brows and turned towards him in her chair.

„Tell me who you are, Clara Oswald, if that's your real name", his voice was just below a growl and he leant in a bit more. The air was tingling between them and she felt the fear crawling up her veins.

„I'm...sorry but, I don't know what you..."

„You know exactly what I'm talking about", he interrupted sharply. „Don't you dare lying to me, I notice when people are lying."

He was right. She knew that there would be some lacks in her biography, some unnatural signs in her history and some strange events in London that had to do with a man and a flying blue police box. But she had made a promise to herself: to protect the Doctor and never tell anyone about his secrets. „I really don't know what you're talking about."

He snorted and stood up. Clara watched him walking up and down in front of her. He stopped behind his chair, his hands were gripping the back tightly. „When I looked you up, there were some data I had no access to. It was above top secret material, Clara, it's state secret."

With that he pushed the chair out of the way and came forward to lean agaist the table instead. She looked up at him, his gaze furious and full of distrust. It felt like a hearing, only crueler because in this moment she found herself so close to tell him everything about the Doctor without him even asking. He doomed over her, invading her space like the most natural thing in the world, trying to get a closer look. She felt his heated breath on her face.

„I know every state secret and not only the ones of England", he hissed. However hard she tried she could not bring herself to look away from these frozen lakes inside of his eyes. „But the access was denied even to me, Clara", she felt him moving closer if that much was even possible. „I have never been denied anything". The young woman sucked in breath and shivered. How could she get out of this? She'd memorised the fact that Kate Stewart and UNIT were the only ones to officially know about the Doctor and the TARDIS and alien invasions but how could Mycroft not know?

„Never?", she asked instead, sure that she was teasing him even more. But somehow she liked the fact that it sent her pulse higher. She wasn't thinking straight, just gave into impulsive reactions. Mycroft smiled a smile that was not reaching his eyes before his face turned to stone again.

„I detest not knowing, Clara".

And for the briefest moment she felt the truth dancing dangerously loose on her tongue. The words Doctor, TARDIS, time and space whirling in her head and she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Without his piercing eyes in sight, she slowly calmed down. She had to stay strong. She had to protect the Doctor! When she opened her eyes again, Mycroft was observing her closely. And before she would fall under his spell again, she stood, making him take a step back. „I'm sorry", she said. „But I can't tell you. I promised never to tell anybody." She turned to leave but stopped and turned once more at the door frame. „Talk to Kate Stewart. She knows. And maybe she'll tell you. I understand that you don't want to see me again, so..." she paused, a part of her hoping for him to stop her. „I won't come back. Goodbye, Mycroft".

With that she nearly stormed out the house and ran down the next two streets. Getting away as quickly as she could. No matter where she was or who she was with, she would always be running. Clara slowed her pace for the house was no longer in sight when she realised she'd forgotten her coat.


	6. The sixth night

The sixth night:

_She was impossible._

It had been three weeks after he had confronted her with his doubts about her person and today he'd finally got the information he needed. Clara Oswald had been a time traveler. She'd seen foreign plantes, galaxies even and she had saved billions of lifes. Two years ago, she'd helped the Doctor, an alien from the planet „Gallifrey" joining his past incarnations to stop the so called „time war". And all of it right under his nose! Here in London! Mycroft had been in Japan that day, hunting down some criminal buisness. Half the city had seen the blue police box floating trough the air, carried by a helicopter. He'd had something according to a conference with Kate Stewart who had informed him about the Doctor's latest assistant.

Clara Oswald and her alien friend had saved planets, she had seen a star die and rise again. She had seen wonders. It was a lot to get in at once. Mycroft never knew about aliens, of course it was in all probability that life existed somewhere in the universe but he'd never expected it to be so close. He wondered how and why she'd given up all of this, how she could not be bored by humans and their boring little brains. He took a sip of whiskey and looked at her coat that lay upon the footstool in front of him. She'd forgotten it three weeks ago when she'd left in a hurry, clearly in panic. He understood now. He placed his glass on the small desk, leant forward and took the coat in his hands. As he let his fingers slide trough its dark blue wool, he remembered the scared look on her face. She could never have explain it to him without him thinking her insane in the end. Aliens, a flying police box that could travel in time and space! All those infinite possibilites implied. How could she stop? How did she manage her everyday working at school without losing her mind? She had seen things, almost nobody had ever seen and probably never would get to see. Anywhere, anywhen. But all those amazing things she had seen and done had not made her a megalomaniac or arrogant.

Clara Oswald was kind, gentle, brave, patient, strong and so selfless. She fitted into a normal life perfectly. If Darwin had met her, he would have been very proud. The young woman adapted herself so smoothly that noone would ever notice that she was...

_Special. _

But she couldn't have let go of that hobby completely. So she had gladly joined Sherlock and John in their ridiculous little Us-against-the-world-group. Solving crimes, hunting down murderes and escaping burning buildings. She needed the feeling of the adrenalin moving through her veins. She needed to run.

Now Mycroft knew why he'd always thought her far more clever than his brother's usual choice of friends. She was open-minded and maybe that was the reason why they got on so well. Had gotten on so well. He lifted the coat higher, just below his chin, the soft material against his skin. Before he realised he was missing Clara, he'd pressed it to his nose and inhaled deeply, his eyes fluttering shut. By now he knew what perfume she wore. It was called „Stardust".

Five whiskeys and many deep breaths later he found himself at half past eight at the door of her appartement. At least he had to return her coat. She probably owned more than one but it was still her property. He knocked firmly and almost felt like running straight away again. Probably she wouldn't be at home at all on saturday night, probably she was going out with some friends, probably with collegues, probably...she was seeing another man. Certainly, she was a pretty woman in her late twenties. A sigh escaped Mycroft's lips and he turned to leave, considering to send her the coat in a box tomorrow, when the door was opened slowly and a gentle voice reached his ears:„Mycroft". Clara looked up at him, clearly surprised by his visit. She was wearing yoga pants and a green tank top that was a little bit too tight, her hair freshly brushed - _Preparing for going to bed._

He realised he was staring, closed his mouth again and delayed her the coat.

„You forgot your coat", he stated and scolded himself for this stupidly obvious statement. _Shut up!_Clara ignored the jacket completely and opened the door wider. „Do you wanna come in?", she asked and he found himself looking at her doubtfully. This was her home. It was a line to be crossed and if he crossed it... „I don't think I should...", he began and stared down at his shoes, his free hand playing with his umbrella.

„Come on", she said. „I've just made some tea" - _Lie. She was trying to convince him to stay for an absurd reason. But why?_

Nobody had ever asked him to stay.

„Clara.."-

„Five minutes", she turned in. „Only five minutes, Mycroft."

The politician pressed his lips together. He thought about that night, he'd hold her hand, the night he'd pulled her into his arms, the night he'd pressed her against the wall with such firmness. He looked into her pleading brown eyes, her softly framed face and knew he was in trouble.

„Alright", he said. „Five minutes, then I'm gone". She smiled brightly and took the coat from him when he entered her flat.

Clara's home was small and warm, just like her. He left his coat at her wardrobe and followed her into the small kitchen where she prepared tea for both of them. Mycroft stood leaning against the fridge, his umbrella still in his left hand. „Can you shoot somebody with that thing?"

He looked up and saw her pointing at his umbrella. „Why would I do that?", he asked.

„Well, you always keep it with you when you're outside. Some politicians don't leave their houses without their weapons and you don't leave your house without your umbrella. Or can you do some martial arts tricks with it?". She giggled and dipped the tea bags in the cups of hot water.

„It is not a weapon, Clara. It's an umbrella and it only fulflils its usual purpose to keep me dry when it rains. And my weapon lies in my office desk, centre drawer, if you want to know."

She smiled and turned, leaning her backside against the furniture. Her green top slipped up a bit and uncovered a part of her waist. It was when he briefly wondered if she was wearing anything underneath. „Like what you see?", her voice almost made him jump and when he realised he'd just been caught staring, he cleared his throat and lowered his gaze to his shoes again. - _Definitely._ _This is why I shouldn't have come in._

Clara turned around again, finished the tea and walked over. She stood before him and handed him the cup with a smile. He took it and did his best to smile back although his stomach was aching. They stared at each other for a moment longer than necessary before Clara broke the tension and sat down at the kitchen table. Mycroft suppressed a sigh of relief and joined her on the opposite chair.

„So", Clara began carefully. „You've spoken to Kate?"

Thankful that she had changed the subject, Mycroft joined in. They kept talking for a while. About the Doctor himself, his time machine, all the places she'd been to and things she'd seen. As Clara described the planets, the colours, the creatures and the foreign engines, her eyes were sparkling with joy and her whole face brightened up. She was using her hands a lot and was grimacing strangely when it came to some monsters. For once in a very long time Mycroft found himself interested in a person, he was almost curious. He had read the basic things already but he was fascinated by the way she brough those dry reports to life.

_She sees wonders._

Their cups had been empty for a long time, the promised five minutes had turned into an hour when he finally asked: „Why did you leave him?"

Clara let out a heavy sigh and stared down into her empty cup. - _Sorrow and pain._

„After he changed...renewed,...I wasn't sure if I could trust him anymore.", her voice was fragil and she didn't seem to know how to explain it. She still had not quite understand how and what exactly had happened there. „Suddenly, I...He was so different to me. And I realised that I had projected my whole life onto him and time traveling. So I decided to leave and start a normal life all over again. It worked out until...", she broke up.

„Until you met Sherlock", Mycroft finished for her. She gave him a sad smile. She knew, he understood. He checked his watch and stood up. „I will leave now, Clara. Thank you for the tea".

She stood up as well and went with him to the door. As he put on his coat again he noticed her intense look on him. He should have opened the door and walk out, instead he found himself staring back. She was close, too close. He could tell by the rise and fall of her chest that she was barely breathing, her eyes never leaving his. _Turn away!_

He heard that whispered advice in his head but he didn't move. It almost felt like some strange power kept him there, right in front of her, pulling him closer and closer to her. He could feel her warm breath stroking his face, his gaze dropped to her lips. Clara hugged her arms aroud his waist and burrowed her face in his chest, trying to release the tension that was dancing between them.

But it didn't work. She raised her head again and gave him a happy smile. „I've missed you".

He didn't know what got him in the end. Her smile, that sentence, the fact that she was so much more than she appeared to be or the five whiskeys he'd had that evening. If this was all he could ever have he would take it. Just for once.

So he bent down and pressed his lips to hers. It was soft and chaste but nevertheless made his blood boil. He ended it as soon as he had started it but didn't pull away. Their faces still close but not touching, they looked into each others eyes, his fingers caressing her cheek, not able to let go. She was shaking. „Forgive me", he whispered but before he could even think of pulling away, she kissed him back passionatly. And with her kiss he sucked in breath. His hand wandered from her cheek to the back of her neck, holding her there and bringing her closer, his other hand clutching his umbrella tightly. She grasped his coat and got up on her toes, meeting him halfway. He deepened the kiss even more, trying not to leave too much space between them as she parted her lips. The warmth of her breath entered his mouth and fell down his throat, sending shivers down his spine. When she let out a silent moan, he knew he had to stop as long as he was still able to. If he didn't stop now, he wouldn't go home tonight. When he broke the kiss, Clara was panting, her pupils dilated hugely. Mycroft didn't need a mirror to know that he was just the same. Not wasting time, he opened the door behind him, murmered a „Goodnight", stepped outside and closed the door again. He regained his steady breath and left the building rapidly.

That night he was haunted by lips that felt like rose petals and the feeling of being surrounded by stardust.


	7. The seventh night

The seventh night

She bit her lip and stared out of the window of the cab. Cars were speeding by and the rain was knocking against the glass but she barely noticed. Nervously she pulled her suit jacket down and kept stroking her white blouse underneath.

Only a few minutes ago she'd been standing at his door and pressed the bell, her knees weak and her breath thin. But he wasn't there.

It was Sunday afternoon and if Mycroft Holmes wasn't at home there was only one place in London where he would be.

„Diogenes Club, please", she had told the driver then. Clara Oswald knew that the politician would be working, he hardly did anything else except spying...and kissing her.

Mycroft Holmes had kissed her yesterday. It had been a shock, of course. They had been about to say goodnight to each other, she had found herself unable not to look at him and suddenly he'd bent down and...she shivered only at the memory of his mouth on hers. It had been quick and short, like the blink of an eye and she could have pretended it had never happened. But her thoughts had given way when she'd felt his fingers so lightly caressing her cheek and his hot breath hitting her lips when he'd whispered: „Forgive me".

Clara never knew what it was like not to think straight anymore. Now she did. In an impulsive reaction she had kissed him back with all the passion she could've possibly felt in that moment. He had been listening to her for over an hour, which was intended to be only five minutes. She had talked about the Doctor and their adventures and Mycroft had listened to her in respectful silence. His eyes had been watching her every movement and she hadn't counted the smiles that had appeared on his face that evening over and over again.

And her heart had skipped a beat when he had kissed her back, her lips had parted without her noticing. After apologizing to her she would have expected him to leave on this very instant. But he hadn't. He had held on to her, not letting go of her, his hand warm on her neck. And she had wanted it. Wanted him. She'd pulled him further down on his coat, getting on her tiptoes to get closer. Sometimes she really whished she was taller. The fact that she hadn't even been wearing shoes had not been helpful. But it had been enough for his lips to move against hers in such a slow motion it was delicate and torturing as well. He had tasted of whiskey, the aroma of the tea had not been able to cover it, but she couldn't have cared less, feeling his skin against hers, his breath in her mouth and his unique scent around her. Suddenly she had found herself wanting to touch him. To get him out of his coat, his jacket and slide her fingers underneath that bloody perfect waistcoat of his. The thought had made her moan only silently but before she could have even moved her hands, he had pulled away. After he'd disappaered almost hurridly she had found her breath again and had felt her heart beat almost painfully against her chest as if she'd been running for hours.

Now she knew it had been the right thing for him to go. If they hadn't stopped God knows what would have happened afterwards. She'd probably asked him to stay. But it had been wrong of course. She knew him better now, yes, but Clara was not so easily distracted, normally.

But whatever it was that was happening between them it was not normal but far beyond it.

She had been visiting him on Sundays, yes. She had felt sorry for him, of course. She had been sort of attracted to him, well...he was a gentleman after all, with really nice suits. Clara had never thought of suits to be very attractive or even sexy on men but since Mycroft she appeared to have a thing for them. Today she had caught herself imagining to grap the politician's blood red tie and pull him down again, closer to her face. But she'd stopped herself just in time. He was her dead best friend's brother! He was the British Government, for Heaven's sake! He was a Holmes.

Clara would never believe it when Sherlock claimed to have no emotions at all, being only logical and socially incompetent. The younger one had had friends in the end, John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly and her. And Mycroft? For all Clara knew it was just him and his mind. There was Anthea or whatever her name was but she was only his secretary. One of a few social contacts he could not avoid. Maybe, she thought, in his world she was something like a friend to him. Did he kiss all of his friends? - Hang on, what friends? There was just...her.

However hard she tried she couldn't figure him out. It possibly had been the whiskey.

The common room of the building was cool and dim. There were about 10 men, all of them grey already and Clara wondered if those people were Mycroft's only associates. Probably because they never talked. Some of them were staring at her for a few seconds before they returned their attention to their papers or books. She didn't dare to move, afraid of making a noise. It was so silent that even her own breath seemed loud in her ears. She turned when she heard footsteps approaching her. Two young men (about her age maybe) in simple black suits guestured her to follow them. Clara knew better than to say something and just nodded keeping her face as blank as possible.

At least she looked serious in her blazer and suit trousers. John had once told her about this nearly scary experience he'd made the first time when Mycroft had called him here. Poor John, such things always happened to him. She banned the army doctor from her thoughts as they walked down some stairs into the basement.

Her heels echoed along a very burdensome long corridor with grey stone walls. The lights above her seemed to scan her and she did her best to keep her eyes on the back of the two walking suits before her. This whole level really looked like a bunker, she found. Sort of depressing, actually. She wondered if Mycroft tried to stay away from possible distraction when the men stopped in front of a heavy metal door. They didn't knock, it opened automatically. Then the suitmen stepped aside each and left the way free for her. Clara hesitated but then she took a few strong steps inside. The door closed behind her again and she found herself in a small waiting room with a few chairs and a desk and behind it there was: Anthea!

The attractive woman's eyes were glued to the computer screen in front of her but she smiled nonetheless. „Hello, again, Miss Oswald", she greeted her friendly.

„Clara, please", she answered and smiled back. „It's nice to see you again". At that the secretary looked up and smiled a bit wider. As she returned her gaze to the screen, she said: „Mister Holmes will see you in a minute. Please, sit down. Would you like anything? Tea? Coffee? A pizza maybe?" Clara didn't move and furrowed her brows. „A pizza?", she asked confused.

Anthea seemed completely natural. „Oh, I could get you anything. You just have to ask". Her fingers flew busily over the keyboard.

„No, thank you very much", Clara responded and turned towards the chairs. There was a huge dark grey carpet in here, the chairs were made of black leather and between them there was a glass table. It all looked very professional, clean and neutral. But cold as well.

„Mister Holmes will see you now", Anthea's voice reached her a few moments later and the woman stood up walked over to the door behind her and held it open. Clara must've been hesitating again because the secretary smiled encouragely and said: „Please".

The young school teacher took a deep breath and stepped inside. There was really nothing to be nervous about, she knew. It was not like he was going to bite her. Her gaze dropped to the floor as Anthea closed the door quietly behind her and she found herself ready to turn around and run straight away again. But then she remembered why she had come here and lifted her gaze.

The first thing she spotted was him. Mycroft Holmes sat behind a metal desk, his grey suit fitting the surroundings perfectly, his blue tie the only thing in colour. „Good afternoon, Clara", he smiled politely and leant back against his chair. She couldn't help but remember each time she'd entered Baker Street and Sherlock hadn't even looked up. Completely passive. His older brothers behaviour towards her entering was in stark contrast. She really had his undivided attention right now, well unti she would start boring him.

„You weren't at home", she stated and he raised his eyebrows.

„I am a very busy man", he said. „England needs someone to rule it as you well know". His smile went smug for a second.

"What can I do for you?", he asked simply and remained seated behind his desk, like a king on his throne who descended to talk to a subject. Clara felt the strong need to punch him in his arrogant face! It had only been one day and he was acting like he had not seen her in ages! Maybe this was a defensive strategy again. She stepped forward, placed her hands carefully on his desk not sure what to do with them and looked him straight in the eye.

"You kissed me, Mycroft". She didn't know what else to say. It was the truth. The one undeniable, shocking, yet beautiful truth.

He stood up in one smooth motion and rounded the desk with the elegance of a cat. She couldn't help but wonder how the hell she could be so distracted by a man's way of walking. But this was no ordinary man. This was Myroft Holmes.

She took a step back, put her hands behind her back and watched him as he leaned against the desk, his arms crossed.

"Indeed", he said quietly and didn't take his eyes off of her once.

Then it got her. He had wanted to kiss her, so he just had done it. For him there was nothing wrong with that. Mycroft was not used to be denied, wasn't used to ask for things. Everything he wanted, he would get in the end. So it must have had appeared only natural to him to kiss her because he had wanted to. He just _did _things he wanted. That meant that there were not necessarily feelings implied. It had been a sudden idea, an impulsive reaction. Mycroft being impulsive? When had that ever happened? Maybe it was just a rare function in his brilliant brain. No big deal, then. Too bad.

When he didn't say anything, she pulled her shoulders back until her blazer began to strain and opened her mouth, unsure what to answer, if to answer at all. She ended up with her usual: „Sooo..." and thought about it, while he tilted his head, observing her. _It must be very amusing for him to see one of this little ordinary brains trying to work in front of him, _she thought. But she just found herself malfunctioning, again.

„Under the given circumstances I would have to apologize to you and tell you that I'm terribly sorry for dragging you into this...inappropriate situation by invading your personal space that rudly."

He paused and looked down on the floor while his brows raised. She had noticed him doing that gesture involuntarily in specific situations. But she had not figured out yet what it meant.

„But the truth is I'm not. So I honestly beg your pardon that I will not be lying to you", he ended as he raised his head again. Clara furrowed her eyebrows. Did that mean...?

„So, you would do it again?", she asked calmly, seriously doubting it but hoping otherwise somehow and felt sort of caught when his eyes narrowed.

„I did not say, I would do it again", he stated, his expression blank.

_You didn't say, you wouldn't_, she thought and bit her tongue.

„But you're not sorry for having done it?", she tried instead, actually repeating what he had just explained.

„No", his voice seemed deeper than before when he unfolded his arms and took a step towards her and then another and another. Clara lifted her head up to look at him and let her arms drop from her back. He was so close she could smell the cigarette he must have smoked just a few minutes before her visit. „Not at all", he emphiased with his eyes so intensively burning into hers that she swallowed hard.

_Nor am I_, she thought but kept it to herself again. If there was something she could clearly do without it was appering desperate to Mycroft Holmes. And he pushed her back to reality when he took a step away from her, looking down the floor again. „But I would prefer for various reasons that this little encounter of ours will stay unmentioned to anyone outside this office. You will understand that I have a rather assailable position to hold."

There he was. Mycroft Holmes as she had first met him. Distant, formal and his mind completely on his work and possible consequences. Clara didn't know why she felt kind of hurt by his words. What had she been expecting? So she just nodded, not looking at him. „Yes, understand".

From the corner of her eye she could see him nod in return and going behind his desk again. „If that would be all...", he didn't finish the sentence and looked towards the door behind her. He was actually going to expulse her! That was enough! Clara knew she had been foolish to talk about their accident kiss but there was no need for him to treat her like a stranger.

„Oh no! You don't play that trick on me, Mycroft. Don't you dare!", she hissed and stalked forwards until her legs were pressing against the desk.

He sat back in his chair. „I have absolutely no idea..." but before he could defend himself she interrupted: „Don't you dare to send me away now, we've been through too much for this. It's Sunday afternoon in case you haven't noticed and I'm here, I'm with you like I've been for the past _weeks_! So don't you dare to send me away like I was some sort of political spy or the postman!" Believing she had made herself very clear, she stopped for breathing and waited for him to react. And the most distrubing thing was: she had no idea how he would react – if he would react at all! As Clara Oswald swallowed in her dry throat, Mycroft Holmes knitted his brows but didn't look at her.

„I may have assumed that you would no longer be interested in any form of contact with my person after last night's events.", he carefully formulated and Clara couldn't help but smile. _Last night's events- really? _

„That sounds all kinds of wrong", she chuckled before she could stop her mouth.

„What does?", he asked and she found herself feeling awkward.

She swallowed again. „Well, come on, I mean, last night's events sounds like...you know..." But she decided to let it drop when she saw his piercing eyes. „Never mind. Anyway..", she went on coming back to her point. „I just thought that you and me, we could just keep this up, like..." Too many words again for one simple offer.

„We could just...be friends". Mycroft raised an eyebrow at her and looked at his desk. „I do not have friends", he stated and in that very moment Clara thought she was facing Sherlock. „I have no use for them", he explained like they were talking about a television subscription. When he looked up at her again, she tilted her head in question and smiled kindly. „Have you ever tried?"

He looked at her and opened his mouth without saying a word. It almost seemed like he was conflicted about that question. But Clara already knew the answer. „Clara, I-"

„Look" she interrupted and grasped one of the chairs to sit down in front of him. „It's really simple, in fact. I mean, what I'm trying to say is...", she took her time to overthink her words again and placed her hands on the desk.

„I really... like you. I like talking to you and just being around. I thought we could keep this up?", she added more hopefully than she'd intended to. „In case you want to, that is", she tried her best to laugh but found it stuck in her throat, choked by fear.

He didn't answer for a while and she couldn't look into his eyes anymore. Those observative eyes of his, reading her, stripping and skinning her down every time. He then suddenly leant forward and reached for her hand. Their fingers touched carefully and he let his thumb stroke the back of her hand while he kept his eyes there. They were always holding hands, she realised. From the first night when she had to convince him that she meant him no harm in doing so. Clara felt a sudden alarming affection for him raising in her chest and wondered if this was beyond friendship.

„Yes, but can you?", he asked so quietly she wasn't sure if she'd misheard him. He kept staring at their holding hands like it was the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen.

„Yes, of course. Why wouldn't I?". When he didn't react, she squeezed his hand. Mycroft's eyes still avoided her face but he spoke finally.

„You have seen me beyond my control several times now. I am not a good man, Clara and one day I might be responsible for a horrible incident that will make you suffer", he explained bitterly. „And you are far too intelligent to let this happen", he added now nearly softly.

She watched him swallow hard and his expression was almost apologetic. It was when she understood. Mycroft expected her to leave. He was certain that she would turn her back on him one day. And she didn't know why. What she knew by now was that he obviously didn't want her to. They wouldn't have this conversation if he didn't care. Still she didn't understand it all. He was Mycroft Holmes. He read people like open books, anywhere, anytime, always. If he could deduce a murderer within seconds, couldn't he see that she actually wanted to stay?

She searched his eyes and smiled gently. He definitely needed a reassurance. „I will be fine", she said calmly and when he snorted, she went on: „Travelling with the Doctor put me into dangerous situations over and over again. I can handle this."

Mycroft let go off her hand and stood behind his chair. „This is different, Clara", he said sharply and shoved his hands in his pockets. „This is far more dangerous, this is real. It is about terrorists, killers and most of all politics and all the mud that comes along with it. When something happens to you there will be no turning back. There will be no time machine and no Doctor to fix it. Nothing can be _rewritten_", he hissed and stared at her piercingly. Clara had to admit that he was right on the one hand. Mycroft couldn't fix time and space, he had no sonic screwdriver to drag her out of risky situations and no TARDIS to bring her far far away. On the other hand she wasn't as half as helpless as he thought she was and he was a genius. He could see and deduce things in a matter of seconds, had solutions figured out when ordinary people had just got the problem. She remained seated and tried her best to look convincing.

„You know, the Doctor once asked me if I felt save with him. And I did. Even though I knew that he wasn't perfect. He made mistakes because although he's an alien, he's only human as well. He was scared and angry sometimes but in the end he always found his way. And all planets, galaxies and of course Earth were always save in the end. The Doctor wasn't perfect but he stopped bad things from happening every day anywhere in the universe. And he's never let me down."

When she ended, he stepped forward and sat down again, his expression cold. „The difference between your Doctor and me, Clara, is the fact that he cared", he stated slowly. „I believe that caring is a disadvantage for I always stay uninvolved. I do not care about people."

His words felt like a kick in her stomach. „Mycroft, don't", she began.

„Stop pretending otherwise, Clara. I will not change", he said almost stubbornly.

She raised her brows in wonder and shook her head slightly. „I never thought you would", she admitted. „Just...I know you cared for Sherlock."

Mycroft closed his eyes with a sigh. „Sherlock was my brother", he answered tiredly.

„And I'm your friend", she shot back causing him to open his eyes again. „I know you think you don't need friends but here I am", she smiled and leant back in her chair. „You won't get rid of me".

The politician studied her face for a moment. Then he said: „You know, you hold an abnormal attraction towards danger. You know that, don't you?"

„What's life without a little risk?", she asked, all cheeky and earned a smile from him.

When she left him to his work a few minutes later she was pleased with herself in making a point and actually a little bit excited about next Sunday.


	8. The eighth night

The eighth night

Mycroft sighed and lent back against his chair. His suit jacket hung over the backrest, his sleeves were rolled up and his tie loosened. He'd just finished today's last file and spread some breadcrumbs for Sherlock who would be in France by now. From there his route would go to Germany, Italy, Austria, Croatia and Russia. He worried about his brother's language skills sometimes. Even though his French was almost perfect and he spoke Russian nearly better than him, his German was only acceptable and his Italian was average.

Mycroft himself was quite exquisite in imitating dialects. When he was in a foreign country, people barely recognised him. He could turn his English accent off, just like a light switch. Only one of many plus abilities his brain was giving naturally.

As he took a deep breath in, he had to close his eyes for a second when the tension in his shoulders hit him like a streak. He exhaled slowly and stretched his back. The politician felt a dozen needles move up his spine. Today he felt every single one of his 42 years of life. Rubbing his neck, he checked his pocketwatch. It was almost half past eight. His first and only _friend _would arrive within the next 20 minutes.

Yes, Clara Oswald was his friend, at least that was what she insited on calling herself. Her last week's visit at Diogenes had surprised him. He had not expected to see her again just one day after their...incident. Yet, he had not quite figured out why he had allowed himself to kiss her. Each time it had come to his mind, he'd decided to blame it on the five whiskeys, to overthink his drinking habits and just leave it because it didn't matter for that she would keep him at bay after this. But she hadn't.

Now he couldn't believe that he had not seen it coming. Clara was a curious nature with an insatiable hunger for the truth. Of course she would not let him get away with kissing her and then leaving in a hurry. Obviously she had intended to look serious by wearing a suit in dark purple and a white shirt underneath. She'd tried her best not to look her usual style. Quite possibly she'd wanted to set a contrast to her bed clothes, he'd last seen her in. Besides she'd kept her back straight all the time and her position distant. And she had not been satisfied with his truly honest answer that he was not sorry for having done so.

„_So, you would do it again?" _\- Curiosity was what he'd seen in her eyes. Maybe the slightest form of fear.

Did she want him to do it again?

He had shaken off this ridiculous thought immediately and decided to make it seem clearly unimportant to him, which it was, of course and took her word not to tell anybody. It was better that way, easier. And for the clever woman she was she'd accepted it. But obviously she didn't like to be kicked out. He had tried to under the impression she'd be leaving anyway. She had gotten furious, her short form coming to stand in front of his desk, telling him that she'd been there for him, appealing to his consience, reminding him that she was not a stranger or someone you couldn't avoid to talk to like the postman. Of course, she wasn't. She never had been.

For some reasons he didn't understand she wanted to keep up their...whatever it was they had and Mycroft found that he didn't mind. He'd always avoided people, he was fine when he was left alone and could do his thinking and his work properly. It had never occured to him to make friends, heaven's, no! Since primary school he'd known he was much quicker than all the others his age, boring him to death with their silly questions, ideas and games. Until uni, not much had changed. The politician had been fine with the fact that he would never have friends, he'd never wanted or _needed_ (of course not!) them.

Clara was no genius, not in the way Sherlock and he were. But she had her own genius way in some parts of life. Also she was ruled by emotions very often. However in contrast to most people she was not distracted by them. They seemed to make the logical part of her brain work better, faster. Mycroft had never met someone whose feelings were not getting in the way of logical processes. It was a common sickness among human beings: the more they cared the less they could think straight. Even Anthea was useless when she had a rather emotional day, which were rare but still happened too often.

_Emotions._

He hadn't felt anything when he'd kissed her. Not emotionally. He had been sure she wouldn't pull away, considering her heated gaze on him. In her eyes were concern, every time she looked at him and something close to affection maybe. She liked him, somehow for whatever reason. He'd felt a sudden desire for her and his body had reacted. This kiss had been a mistake, of course. Although he'd enjoyed the feeling of her lips on his.

Mycroft knew that he would never do it again.

It had been a weak moment, an accident so to speak. Besides it had been very foolish of him to kiss a woman so much younger than him! Nothing, she'd ever want. Nothing that was ever actually realistic. Nothing that was in need to be discussed. Actually, he had already forgotten about it.

The door bell rang and he got up and moved towards the door. His mind was tired and his body exhausted but she wouldn't notice. His expression was blank again when he opened the door.

„Hello, _friend_", she smiled, stepped inside and took off her coat. The one she'd forgotten here before...

He noticed that she was back to her everyday look, wearing a black skirt, stockings and a blue sweater. - _Sassy being in emphiasing the word friend, happy to see him, and somehow excited_

„Hello, _Clara_",he answered and narrowed his eyes at her. Before he could go back to observe her, he turned and walked into the living room.

He sat down at the table and did his best not to moan in pain. His neck and shoulders were killing him today. It would turn out as another sleepless night then. Mycroft felt her eyes on him and looked up when she remained standing next to his chair. She seemed to study him, so he decided to let her take her time and said nothing. Clara took a step towards him and reached out in his direction. For the briefest moment it seemed she intended to touch his arm, he could feel the faintest warmth radiating from her but her hand landed behind him on the backrest.

„You've had a rough day?", she asked and put her other hand on her hip. He didn't like the way she was suddenly standing above him and looking down on him. Again, he felt old for the first time in years. Mycroft had never really cared about his age but now...

„You look tired", she stated. The politician did his best not to grimace.

„Yes, thank you. I am aware of being advanced in years", he answered dryly. Clara smiled and shook her head, causing her dark hair to float forth and back. „I didn't mean it that way", she laughed and finally took her seat.

„I mean you look like you've been working all day, staring at the screen and obviously you didn't sleep last night. So it's only natural that you look a bit exhausted. I would be looking like a zombie!" - _Managing not to sound too seriously logical in making jokes, mostly about herself, not taking herself too serious but only in some selected situations_

„I am used to a lack of sleep, sometimes sleep only gets in the way. I could indeed do without the increasing tension but some side effects are always involved".

She raised her eyebrows in some sort of pity expression with that sad smile before she stood up and moved to stand behind him.

He was about to ask what she was doing when he could hear her raising her hands slowly, shyly. When her fingertips touched his shoulders, he almost flinched but stopped himself in the last moment. „May I?", she asked quietly. Instead of giving an answer he leant back, right into her hands. There was no point in being nervous or suspicious. She was being friendly, and in her understanding friends did things like this for another. Although Mycroft never allowed anyone to touch him it was different with her. By now he could be sure that she meant him no harm. It was alright. Almost safe.

Her fingers were careful and hesitant at first but warm. This first contact was strange to him, unknown and seemingly impossible to get used to. She put on a light pressure, clearly not wanting to hurt him although that would be difficult to avoid if she did it properly. Either that or she could leave it. Her perfume invaded his senses and couldn't help but remember the feeling of her skin. _\- Don't get distracted, focus!_

When she pressed harder, he bit back a pained groan and closed his eyes. His muscles felt like tight knots, unable to move, hard as bone. As her petite fingers were now working on them, warming them up again, he felt a need to resist her touch. He was not weak, and he would never show anything from beyond. Not even to Clara. How could he allow himself to lay back? How could he give in to her touch? How could he possibly let go in front of her?

„Stop tensing and relax, I'm trying to make you better", she comanded.

„Relaxing is dull", he gritted between his teeth and she gave a sigh, moving her hands closer to his neck. „You sound like Sherlock, you know", she murmured and stroked her fingers up and down his bare neck, so her fingertips reached his hair. Mycroft felt a shiver across his back and reached behind in one sudden motion to stop her hand right there. That was too much. Too close and way too intimate.

In doing so, the pain hit him unexpectantly hard and he hold his breath for a moment and bit his tongue. This time a heavy sigh escaped his lips. „Sorry", she whispered and moved back to his shoulders. He slowly let go of her, making sure she would not do it again and she kept on working at his tensed muscles. Glad that he'd distracted her from speaking of Sherlock he opened his eyes again. He was close to tremble, and did his best not to let it happen. Never giving in!

„You know, if you want this to work you'll have to relax a little bit", she murmered. „It's almost like you're fighting it". _\- How does she know?_

He swallowed to get over the weird feeling in his chest and just replied: „Nonsense", trying his best to sound arrogant and cold. To emphiase his point he rolled his shoulders back even though he had to bite his lip to avoid a groan. Clara's fingers went on massaging his tensed muscles with more pressure this time and Mycroft let his arms drop a bit, just to make sure to be better afterwards.

„You work too hard", her voice drifts towards him.

„I have a position that demands my undivided attention every day, especially with two undercover operations and the first democratic elections in Egypt", the words about his work fell from his mouth before he could stop himself. Claras fingers stopped immediately and she leant forward just the slightest bit.

„Did you just..."-

„No", he interrupted coldly. „It was just an example, forget about it".

She kept silent after that and moved her hands soothingly over his shoulder blades. He decided to stop her, feeling more and more distracted by her touch. He'd just metioned his work to her, for God's sake! He'd never done this before!

So he leant his head back to look up at her. Her smile was gentle, her face framed by her dark straight hair. „Thank you", he said. „I'm better now". Then he leant forwards, away from her hands and put his elbows back on the table. He refused to look at her until she sat next to him again, studying his face. Mycroft had no idea why he'd let her this close. She just invaded his space again and again and he did nothing to stop her (and he was one to talk after kissing her!). Even worse: he found himself pulling her towards him with certain actions! Why did he do that? Why would he want her with him?

„Do you trust me?", she suddenly asked out of nowhere. Hiding his surprise behind his mask, he answered: „Why would I not trust you?"

„No, that wasn't my question, Mycroft. Do you trust me?"

„I am afraid I do not know what you want from me", he kept staring at his folded hands.

„First, I want you to look at me" - _This is all kinds of ridiculous!_ He turned his head and raised his eyes at her. She smiled again.

„Thank you", she said quietly. „Now, do you trust me?"

Mycroft didn't know what to say. They had a basis of association, they talked about several things even though it remained small talk mostly. But trust?

Had he ever trusted someone? People were emotional and they made mistakes because of it. And with Clara being a very emotional woman but clever at the same time he didn't know what to make of it.

„I do trust you in several matters", he finally said.

„But...?" Her eyes seemed to sink underneath his skin, looking for the truth. He felt visible somehow and he didn't know rather if he liked it or not. He'd always stepped back into the shadows when he felt the necessity to. And here she was, holding him back, dragging him into the light once more. She tried to see him.

„There is no but", he added and changed the subject back to small talk. He wondered how long he would be able to keep this up until she would not buy it any longer. With a mind as curious as hers she would not let him get away with this forever. But for now she let him.

So they would have tea and talk about the Doctor, foreign countries or enjoy the silence together. A peaceful silence he'd missed for too long and now had finally found with Clara Oswald next to him. His first and only friend. And possibly the only friend he would ever have and wouldn't mind it.


	9. The (not)date night

The (not-)date night

Several nights later...

The warm wind embraced Clara Oswald on a sunny friday in August. She was sitting on her bike, riding along the country side. The fields were golden and enlighted by the sun. The smell of flowers and light heat invaded her nose and she felt free. Almost like she was flying ever faster. It was the most beautiful feeling to ride along, her bike underneath her, bringing her to different places, on and on and on. Her soul felt light almost weightless.

She held that feeling until she got home again in the early afternoon, and nearly stumbled across the box in front of her door. It was a large grey paperbox with a white-silver ribbon around it. A present?

She took it into her arms, opened the door and walked inside. She'd just set the box on her bed when her phone beebed. Clara took it out of her jacket and looked at the screen.

_Mycroft Holmes calling_

In wonder she pressed the green button and held it to her ear.

„Good afternoon, Clara", his familiar voice greeted her politely.

„Hello", she answered. „How are you?"

She heard him smile and a warm feeling spread inside her stomach.

„Fine, thank you. I hope you had a delightful day at work?"

Clara relaxed. Obviously he just intended to do small talk as usual. Her attention turned back to the box. With one hand she began to pull at the ribbon.

„It was fine, a little annoying as usual but Courtney gets better", she answered automatically, far more interested in the mysterious present that had waited in front of her door.

„That is nice to hear, I do hope you just received my sending", he suddenly said and Clara stopped her movements immediately. „I'm...sorry?" This couldn't be...possibly...

„There will be a charity event tonight, taking place at the National Gallery in line with the world's children foundation and my presence is being expected"

She ripped of the ribbon in two tugs and opened the box in a hurry, tossing thin white paper aside.

„Yeah...?", she had a faint idea of what was about to come but wouldn't believe it until he'd spat it out.

The content of the box made her inhale sharply and she bit her lip in the next moment, hoping he hadn't heard her.

„I would be pleased if you would join me on this rather boring event with rather boring people around. I think the dress may suit you perfectly"

The young woman closed her mouth and opened it again, unsure what to say. She put the phone down next to the box and touched the fabric carfully. _Silk, oh my stars!_

It was a long bordeaux lace dress with a loose skirt, simple but classy. It was that kind of dress Clara would never have the money or the event for. The last time, she'd worn a long dress that was nearly brushing the floor had been at her prom. With her wide eyes still fixed on the dress, she took back her phone. „How did you know my size?", she asked completely gobsmacked.

„Clara, please, the dress is of course tailored and I sized you up at first sight", his voice deeply bored.

„Okay", she said, still unable to think properly. A tailored silken lace dress, for God's sake! „I'm afraid, I don't have the right shoe-"

„Take a closer look."

She did and lay the dress carefully on her bed. The box also inclueded a pair of red high heels, maybe the most beautiful shoes she'd ever seen and an adequate handback about the size of her phone, blazoned with bloodred pearls. For a moment she waited and admired the sight in front of her. All of this just for her. A tailored dress! That bag! So very precious! Then she remembered that she had Mycroft on her phone.

„And what if I say no?" As flattered as she felt, she couldn't get off the feeling of being his pet.

„I have been reliably informed that it is a common practice for people to accompany their_ friends_ at certain events to make them feel less out of place. And since you insist on being a _friend_ of mine, I am sure that I can count on your reliability tonight."

_Damn!_

What was she supposed to say to that? He was right! Obviously her skills as a friend were needed. Or maybe...

„So, you're in need of a plus one?", she asked.

„I do prefer the word company, but the meaning is just the same." She sighed.

„So, it's not like a date or anything?"

„Of course not, we would not want to start any gossip, would we?", he'd almost spat the word _gossip_ and Clara felt like someone had kicked her in the stomach.

„No", she answered short with him and ran a hand through her hair.

„The car will be waiting for you outside the building. You've got two hours".

Two hours? Normally that would have been enough time for her to get ready but this was different. She had never been to a charity event, she had to shower first, she had no idea what to do with her hair, and worse: her face!

„Mycroft...I'm not sure if..." But he'd already hung up. Clara shook her head at the phone and threw it into the pillows. Sometimes she really hated him for being...him!

Two hours and five minutes later she was sitting inside the car with the driver holding the door for her. „Good evening, Miss Oswald", he'd greeted her and had slightly bowed and Clara couldn't help but chuckle silently. She almost felt like a lady of high society. „Mister Holmes will be delighted to welcome you at the National Gallery", he added and she gave a quick nod. Surely they would not appear there together, in one car as a pair. Mycroft wouldn't be Mycroft if he'd let that happen. He would never risk his image of the professional, the loner. Clara wondered if she was the first woman (except Anthea) to join the politician in public. She remembered that she'd thought about the same question a long time ago, that night the TARDIS had deleted her bedroom again and showed her pictures of the Doctor's previous companions. Shaking her head free from those memories, she opened the bloodred handback and took out her pocket mirror. Her hair was twisted in a bun just above her neck, her smokey eyes just perfectly painted and her lips coloured in a nude tone. She'd decided to put three of her favorite rings on her fingers, no necklace tonight. The dress was pretty much enough. She'd put on a different perfume. She only used it for dates or for christmas or any sort of parties, so she used it rarely. Clara had never been a woman for parties, the loud music (mostly not her taste) and the muggy air giving her a headache, most people were drunk around midnight and Clara had always appreciated an easy evening, cuddled up on her couch with a good book and a cup of tea. Tonight would be official and maybe there would be some classical music, a pianist probably. She shifted in her seat and swept her hands along the long bordeaux skirt. It was long enough to cover her feet, not giving the danger of stepping on it. This would have been the most horrible thing!Trying to relax, she leant back in the seat, turning the ring around her index finger nervously.

The car was gliding to stop in front of the National Gallery and Clara heard the driver's door open and shut. Two heartbeats later, her door was opened and held for her. She climbed out, careful not to step on the seam. Somehow she made it out safely and stood. „May I remark that you look enchanting, Miss Oswald", the driver said and bowed again. She smiled at him, thanked him for the compliment and bringing her here, whished him a good night before she turned and faced the staircase up to the Gallery. It was a mild night, a light warm breeze tickled her neck. Clara turned at the third step of the stairs, watching men in fine black suits and women in very beautiful dresses approaching the museum. All of them seemed clearly used to it, rather bored about it. Some women were smiling but possibly just to look pretty. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, listened to the sound of cars speeding by and the many voices around her. From the inside of the building she heard a piano playing.

„I am glad to see that my choice suits you so very well". Clara smiled faintly before she opened her eyes to see Mycroft Holmes standing at the base of the staircase, right underneath her. He smiled almost kindly and moved up the steps. He'd chosen his black pinstripe-suit, which Clara thought was the finest among all his suits and a bordeaux tie. Well, at least they'd fit fashionably. „Quite chic yourself, Mister Holmes", she greeted him with a smile. He stopped just one step underneath her and studied her face. Her first impulse was to ask if her make-up was too much but she decided against it,not wanting to seem insecure.

„Are we back to formalities now, Miss Oswald?", he asked obviously amused. Her smile only grew wider. „Only for tonight, Mister Holmes", she stated. „Wouldn't want to start any gossip, would we?"

Mycroft stepped up next to her, hiding his smile by dipping his head. It seemed to Clara that he sometimes made rather careful attempts to show her some empathy. Maybe because he wanted to make her feel easy around him but he'd never give himself away. Especially not in public. He was walking a tightrope in finding a way to let his armour down with her and putting it back on as soon as she asked him too many, too personal questions. She was sure he knew that he couldn't keep this up forever, didn't need to in fact. But somehow he wouldn't believe it. As if almost he thought himself not worth her trust.

„Shall we?", he offered his arm and she took it with a nod. She quite enjoyed the way he was leading her up the stairs and into the building, saying both their names at the entrance to the man with the guest list. Her name on a guest list, she'd never thought about something like this to happen. It had never meant something to her, in fact. Still it didn't. Clara never minded the fact that she was sorted into the middle class, upper middle class maybe. She was a school teacher with a small flat and a motorbike and she was happy. Never had it occured to her that she wanted more money, or power or influence. Her parents had ever been rich but she'd had a wonderful childhood and there was nothing the both of them had not done for her, especially her mother. She swallowed the pain that was still present in her chest and looked around the great hall of the building, her eyes wandering over the paintings. She kept her hand on Mycroft's arm when she turned to face him. In high heels she appeared nearly about two inches taller, which gave her a feeling of satisfaction.

„So, tell me, what's my job tonight?". He narrowed his eyes at her in confusion but put on a thin smile. „I told you", he said, his voice low and quiet, for her ears only.

„You are my company for tonight, sparing me boring and unnecessary conversations with people which brains are working far too slow. It appears to be an endless torture", he looked around the guests and Clara wasn't sure if he'd adressed the last sentence to her or to himself. „Sometimes I hate my job". Now she was sure, he was talking to himself. „Sometimes I feel close to hate my students, well, some of them", she admitted and earned a look from Mycroft which she couldn't figure out. But then, surprisingly he smiled widely.

„Sometimes the things we love the most are also the things that instil hatred in us like nothing else is capable", he said and his smile fainted a bit.

„I think that's probably the point", she agreed with a nod. They looked at each other and Clara was just about to ask him about his obviously forgotten umbrella, when a waitor turned up, carrying a tray with some drinks on it. „Would the lovely couple like a Champagne?", he asked and handed her a glass first. She let go off his arm immediately, in doing so Clara leant forward and hissed between her teeth: „We're not a couple!", her eyes looking briefly at Mycroft who apparently had chosen to ignore the waitor's comment.

The waitor handed a glass to the politician as well and disappeared with a smile. She did her best to avoid his gaze she could feel burning on her skin. Then he raised his glass to her. „To your company", he offered. „To the children", she responded and their glasses met with a soft _cling!_.

„Very well", he murmered and took a sip of his Champagne. Clara felt the liquid tickle on her tongue and in her throat. In fact, she liked it. „May I ask", he kept his eyes around them, scanning the surroundings and suddenly she felt save, protected somehow. There was nothing that would be able to escape his razor sharp senses. „Is it displeasing for you to be regarded as my...associate?"

Clara almost flinched at the word _associate _and looked up at him in surprise.

„No", she heard her own voice tremble. „I,..I just thought it would be...displeasing for you". She felt her cheeks flush. Gosh, what was she so nervous about?

At that he turned his gaze to her and furrowed his brows slightly. „Why would it be displeasing for me? You appear to be a far more beautiful sight than I do". Her jaw almost dropped and he blinked as if he was realising now what he'd just said. Before she could answer him, he cleared his throat.

„I can be very fortunate to have you beside me since all of those slow people will be wanting to talk to you instead of bore me to death."

Clara was almost grateful for him to turn back to his usual choice of words, her heart suddenly hammering in her chest. In that moment Mycroft raised his eyes and gave her a whispered information: „Two steps behind me, clearly approaching, the foreign minister – extremely dense".

Clara wanted to ask how he could have deduced the man's walk when said minister turned up next to them. He was smaller than Mycroft but still taller than her. A corpulent man in his early fifties, his hair all grey and thinning out, his eyes two round brown buttons on his face.

„Mister Holmes", he greeted Mycroft with a smile that stopped right at the corners of his mouth. „Always nice to see you". That lie was so obvious even Clara could deduce it. „It is a shame about the elections in Egypt, won't turn out well, then. Again, I'm sorry but I had no choice, there was nothing we could do". Referencing to the failed democratic elections, Clara noticed the minister was lying again. She had read about it in the papers.

„Certainly, Minister", Mycroft answered completey natural. „May I introduce you to Miss Clara Oswald". She felt a strong need to punch him for turnig the ministers attention towards her but instead she played her role, smiled politely and reached out her hand. The liar took it and placed a kiss on her knuckles and she chuckled to hide her obvious disgust.

„Miss Oswald", the minister repeated while his eyes wandered down her body shamelessly.

„It's a pleasure to meet you, too, Minister", she answered the slightest bit sharply to turn his attention back to her face. „Is it true that you'll be visiting Egypt this month?" She already knew the answer.

„Oh, my dear, I'm afraid the British nation won't be able to cooperate with a country that is not yet mature for democracy and living behind the antiquated walls of religion". Clara raised her eyebrows, feeling Mycroft's fingers touching her wrist just lightly, telling her to leave it.

„You're right", she said and nodded her head. „For religion is the most, what did you call it, yes, that's right, antiquated thing in the world. Wasn't it you who explained on BBC World last week that religion is one of our most important cultural heritage?" The man blushed slightly and looked at Mycroft before he murmered something about a wonderful evening and left with fast steps. Clara watched him walk away and took a sip of her Champagne. Behind her, she felt Mycroft stepping closer. „Well done", he whispered and she felt his breath against the back of her head. „He was lying", she uttered dryly.

„Obviously".

She turned around to face him again. „Then why didn't you say anything? Why didn't you tell him to-"

„As you may have noticed", he interrupted a bit rough but still quietly. „I am not Sherlock. I do not require an audience to my abilities, nor do I wish to make a spectacle of myself to the general public." Taken aback by the way how offended he'd sounded, she gently put her hand on his arm. „I'm no audience, I'm your friend", she said softly, causing him to snort. „And beautiful things don't ask for attention", she heard herself saying, not sure where she'd read this quote. She felt his gaze on her again and turned away, knowing that she was blushing. „My apologies, Clara", he muttered close behind her. „I did not mean to sound angry".

„You didn't. I never thought I'd be in the same room with _him_", she changed the subject and gestured inconspicuously in the direction of the Prime minister who was just entering the hall. Mycroft held his hands behind his back and leant down to her. „Indeed. But he is an ordinary human being, be sure that he never misses a horse race. I believe that he'd wanted to be a jockey himself but somehow politics got in the way".

Clara looked up at him, her eyes wide and her lips pressed together. - _Trying to repress a laugh, imagining the Prime minister in a Jockey outfit._

She turned her head to the left, away from him and chuckled quietly. For the briefest moment he couldn't help but join in silently before he pulled himself together again. It felt...natural. Still, he couldn't take his eyes off of her. The way she acted around the high society members was almost astonishing. She was a strong, self-secure woman who didn't care about social statuses.

For the following hours he introduced her to several collegues, ministers and other high members of society and found himself less bugged than he usually on this kind of events. Clara would shake hands with everyone, give bright smiles but never forget about him. Every time he thought she could do well on her own, her hand would find his arm again, she would stand closer to his side, showing him that he was needed and everyone else that she was with him. She got easier with every hour that passed and she was swimming within the conversations about politics, history and enviroment. Mostly she ended up talking about the children. On that way she captured all the ears for herself but never allowing to last a conversation longer than necessary, then she would allow him to excuse them both with his hand on the small of her back and Mycroft couldn't help but feel almost comfortable with her by his side.

„_And beautiful things don't ask for attention"_

He had never been the man at the front, he would remain in the shadows, acting from there and place the right signs everywhere. It was what he was good at, always had been. For he knew he wasn't handsome or good-looking in any way, he'd learnt to trust his brain and how to dress to impress. His height would do the rest and if he stayed away from any kind of sweets especially cake, his tailored suits could keep the size. Mycroft had eaten too much as a child and regretted it several years later for people made fun of overweight persons especially at school and university.

Shaking his head free from these unpleasent memories, his attention went back towards Clara. He kept it there for the rest of the evening. They would chat, follow the speeches of politicians, she clearly despised but did her best not to let it show and he found himself smiling more often than usual this evening. It was almost two o'clock in the morning when his driver took them home, her first, of course. It would have been indiscret to show up together at the event. People always checked who attended with whom but they never noticed who they were leaving with, well, not at least when you took the back door.

He walked her up to her flat, she'd taken her shoes off and held them in her left hand with the bag while she was searching for her keys with the right one. „You know", she turned around to face him when the door was opened. „Even though I was just your cache tonight", she smiled cheeky. „I've had a lot more fun than I thought I would have, so, thank you."

„The pleasure was on my part, Clara", he nodded.

„Do you, um..", she looked down on her dress. „Do you need the dress back, I mean,...in case it was just borrowed or something."

He couldn't help but chuckle. „Your negligible assessments in my manners are close to defamation, Miss Oswald. The dress is yours to keep naturally."

The young woman pressed a hand to her forehead in embarrassement but she was smiling brighter than before. „Oh, I'm so...thank you. Thank you very much." She put the shoes and bag down on the floor by kneeling down briefly and hugged him after raising up again. Mycroft smelled her perfume even more intensly than he had all evening (it was a different one) and suddenly felt uneasy. His heart skipped a beat while he did his best to give an annoyed sigh at her gesture. His breath felt somehow captured in his throat and a strange heat went up his back when he felt her cheek against his neck. His eyes were almost about to shut at her touch when she finally pulled back to smile at him one last time and whishing him a goodnight before closing the door behind her quietly.

Clara's dress: .

One last thing: Thank you guys so very much for your lovely comments! They are way more flattering than I ever hoped for! Love you! xx


	10. The not silent night

The not silent night

_Silent night, holy night..._

However hard he tried, Mycroft could not escape the sound of jingles, starsingers and church bells. It was Christmas Eve and even if he was the last person in London, or maybe in the world to notice he would have been glad for it to be already over. He hated Christmas. It was so full of sentiment, emotions, really bad songs, way too much sweets and the common custom to call your family members or even worse send them cards. At least it had never occured to some criminal mastermind to blow up a building on Christmas, well, not for the past 12 years. And he had no certain reason to believe it would be any different this year which was a shame really, it would've helped to forget about all that stuff. It was four o'clock in the afternoon and he knew he had about four hours left before his phone would beep with annoying Christmas whishes from his parents, his aunts and maybe uncle Rudy who would be drunk or on cocaine. He looked up when Anthea entered his office. She placed a few files on his desk, made her notes and looked at him. - _Waiting to be released from work, spending the evening with her mother and her sister for the first time in years_

„Thank you", he said and opened his briefcase with the lightest expression of boredom. „That will be all, I will see you the day after tomorrow".

„Thank you, Sir", she turned and stopped at the door. _Don't say it, don't you dare say it!_

„If I may note something, Sir, Miss Oswald would be pleased if you called her". Mycroft closed his briefcase with a loud _clap_ and shot his PA a warning look. Before he could even open his mouth, she added: „None of my buisness, of course. My apologies, Sir. Have a Merry...good night, Sir". He noticed her smug smile before she turned around. After she'd closed the door, he stood up and poured himself a glass of whiskey. Anthea knew perfectly well that he did not whish to hear any references to Christmas or, even worse now, Clara Oswald. His assistant knew they were seeing each other weekly, of course. It was her who called for the car every time they would go out for dinner. Yes, they had dinner, occasionally. Mycroft had come up with the idea because it was getting rude to let her in every Sunday night, with nothing to offer but tea. So he'd asked her out, to buy her dinner, occaisonally. But not tonight, of course. Clara was definitely a woman for Christmas dinner with her family. Something that scared him almost to his bones. He swallowed his drink and found himself actually considering to call her. The politician shook his head and emptied his glass. She knew he didn't like Christmas, she would understand. Nonetheless, he grabbed his phone and looked at her number. No, he was not sentimental! Shaking his head again, he put his phone back in the inside pocket of his jacket and chose to forget about it.

Clara checked her watch. It was half past six and her Dad, his wife and her gran would arrive around eight at her flat. So she had a few hours left to stop by at Mycroft's. Even though he didn't like Christmas, she had decided to pay him a visit and bring him some self-baked biscuits. She hated the idea of people being alone on Christmas even if they pretended they wanted to be like Mycroft. For a woman who had always loved Christmas it was very difficult for her to understand his reasons. She firmly believed that nobody really wanted to be lonely. When she'd mentioned this to him once, he'd shaken his head almost amused by her words. „I am not a loner, Clara", he'd said, knowing that he'd been lying to himself. He had made an aprovement, of course by letting her in. She noticed their growing affection towards each other, the way he seemed to relax in her presence, even though he would never admit it out loud. And obviously spending Christmas with someone was still too much for Mycroft Holmes. But that was just him, so she would accept it, well, after delivering the biscuits. But for now she was standing in the Royal Bank queuing for the cashpoint. There were seven people before her, so she decided to call Mycroft in advance. Probably he would be at home by now for Anthea certainly wanted to have a Merry Christmas herself. She took out her phone, pressed the small red box of biscuits between her left arm and ripcage and shook her hair out of her eyes. It took two rings before he picked up. „Mycroft Holmes"

She wanted to cheer a _Merry Christmas! _But decided against it and chose a simple „Hey" instead.

„How do you do?" She smiled at his question.

„Fine, thanks. Just finished my x-word shopping"

„X-word?", he asked. „Is that a neologism?"

Clara chuckled. „Actually it's a euphemism, for you can't stand Christmas, so I thought..."

„I see".

„Are you at home?"

„Yes, Anthea wanted the evening for dinner with her mother and sister", he sounded bored. „At least it is going to be a silent night, then".

„Well, hopefully! My Dad's wife wouldn't like it any other way..."

Looking around Clara suddenly spotted a young man with short blonde hair in a corner of the branch bank. His eyes went from the left to the right before he suddenly put on a Santa Claus mask, he'd taken out of his black jacket. Her eyes went wide in shock and she took a sharp breath in. „Clara, what is wrong?"

Just when she saw the holder of the gun he was about to pull out, she hissed: „Royal Bank, East End, robbery, now!" The next moment the man shot in the air.

They were about 20 people trapped in the branch, Clara found herself sitting on the ground next to an employee of the Royal Bank. The man wasn't alone. After his first shot, he'd taken out his mobile phone and two other men also wearing Santa Claus masks had come through the toilets, each one carrying an assault rifle they'd produced out of nowhere. They had ordered their hostages to throw their phones in the middle of the hall they were all sitting in, the stone floor cold beneath them. Clara had still the box with the biscuits pressed underneath her arm and tried her best to stay calm and observe the situation as the criminals plundered the cash boxes, plugging notes into three black tote bag.

„We want the code!", one of them screamed at the bank manager and grapped him by his tie. „I, I don't have the code!", the slim man stuttered in fear. „It's...only revealed to the head office. It's not available to any one of us!" The safe code. Clara had often read about bank robberies but she had never dreamt of finding herself in this sort of situation. She decided to keep calm and to wait. She pressed her lips together and hoped that Mycroft would come soon. He was the most powerful man in London, he had the ways of turning a robbery down. If only her heart wouldn't race that fast. A few feet away from her, a woman about her age was cyring. Fear hang above all of them, each person trying to handle it differently. She focused on her breath, trying to shake off the cold shiver that was crawing up her spine.

Two minutes later they heard sirenes and the screw of a helicopter. Clara couldn't help but smile. He would send help, she had known, he would send help. The three robbers started to get nervous. „Shit!", one of them swore. „Who could have called the damned cops?" There was a loud voice coming from the front doors as a flashing light bursted through the darkness outside. „This area is surrounded. Put your weapons down and exit the building through the front doors with your hands behind your heads". There was a quiet murmur between the hostages. The first false Santa exchanged a look with his accomplices.

Then he pointed his gun at the crowd on the floor. A few of them screamed in fear. „Which one of you was it, huh?! You?!" He grabbed the young woman who was still crying and pulled her roughly to her feet. The gun pointed at her temple, he snarrled: „Was it you? Did you call the fuckin' cops, bitch?!"

The woman was frozen in shock, unable to speak properly. All she could do was shaking her head and sobbing. Clara felt the sudden need to stand up. „Tell me!", the robber screamed while his collegues were dicussing a way out of this. The woman sobbed harder, clearly desperate and helpless. „Tell me bitch, or I'll blow your damned head off!"

„Stop it!"

Clara only realised that she had stood up when she heard the tumbled sound of the red box on the floor. All eyes were suddenly turned to her. „It was me", she went on and swallowed her fear. „I called for help". Her lips started to tremble and she exhaled shakily, knowing that she'd probably just signed her death sentence. The man shoved the crying woman to the floor and walked towards Clara in quick steps, his gun pointed at her head. She knew she couldn't run. Before she could think of another possibility a hand was closed around her throat and she looked into a pair of fiery green eyes. The only thing she could see from him under the mask. It was the blonde one, she remembered. „You! You studip bitch! Get out your bloody phone then!" Clara couldn't breath and it took all willing power she had to choke the words out, her view swimming. „I...don ha..have it...anmore". She reached out her arm and pointed at all the phones in the middle of the hall. Looming over her the robber's gaze bored into her eyes before he called one of his accomplices. „You!", he said. „Search her". He released her throat and took a step back, the gun pointed at her head. Reliefed to be able to breathe again, she touched her neck carefully, not breaking eye contact with the man. Clara didn't dare to move, even when she felt a hand travel up her legs, underneath her skirt briefly and then up to her hips. She bit her lip in disgust, fighting the impulse to kick the man in his damned gut. „She's clean", the man behind her said in a spanish accent. There was another voice then, Clara recognised it. It was Lestrade. „Mister Kevin Henns, your identity and those of your mates Mister Harlem and Mister Sanchez have been uncovered."

The three men exchanged hurried looks. „If it's not too much trouble, get out of there so we can all go home to our familys and nobody will be harmed". The robbers stood together and Clara decided to sit down again. They were whispering something, clearly taken aback by the reveal of their identities. Suddenly the blonde man's gaze fell on her again. „Right", he said, stepped towards her and grabbed her by the arm, hard. „You darling are gonna get us out of this", he hissed in her ear before he turned to his accomplices. „You're leaving through the back door when I'm out with her"

Clara struggled and kicked his leg with her heel. „Let me go!" But he ignored her.

„What about them?", the third man in black asked her tantaliser who was obviously the boss. „Not my fuckin' problem, man!", he stated annoyed. And with that he pulled her with him, half of his body hidden behind hers and walked them to the front door. There was no way in fighting him, he was much stronger than her and about one foot taller. Clara felt the gun at the back of her head and closed her eyes briefly before the cold December wind and the lights of the helicopter crashed into her face. Blinking at it, she tried to see properly. When her eyes finally got used to the light conditions, she held her breath. She knew what it felt like to be surrounded by weapons pointed at her. But this was different. They were six police caps waiting for them, an ambulance and about a hundred of officers. Greg Lestrade stood between two of the caps, a loudhailer in his hand. Behind him, Clara spotted a black Jaguar. „Let the hostages go, all of them", Lestrade told him. His eyes shortly scanning Clara for he had recognised her for sure. „Or you leave us no other choice then to squall the building". The car door of the black Jaguar behind him opened and a man in a dark blue coat bailed out. Her heart skipped a beat. _Mycroft._

He stood close behind the DI who he had called only seconds ago after his abruptly ended call with Clara. Something inside him seemed to twist painfully when his eyes fell on her clearly scared face. He nodded in her direction, trying to calm her without words. It was a promise. A promise that he would get her out of this and that all would be fine. „Well, come and get her, then!", the criminal screamed at Lestrade, pulling Clara by her hair closer to him, using her as a shield. She cried briefly and shut her eyes in pain, her hands flying up to his arm instinctively. Even though his schooled behaviour forbid him to let it show, his fingers ached to pull out his own gun and shoot the man right between the eyes. If this bastard was to survive this day, Mycroft would make sure himself that the rest of his life would be hell!

Clara's eyes found him and he felt a sudden wave of fear wash over him. The image of her dead body flashed in front of his inner eyes and he found himself unable to breathe. His chest began to ache somehow as if it becaame ripped apart. He could not think like this.

So he turned his gaze away from her and let his mind run through any possible scenario. In the end there was a chance of 65 percent that Lestrade and his officers would get her out of this alive. It was way too insufficient in his opinion. _\- Delete. New calculation. _

There was a certain chance that he himself would save her by 79 percent, a calculated risk. And he would do it. He leant forward to Lestrade, who was arguing with the criminal and whispered: „Let me". The DI looked at him puzzled. Then, Mycroft handed him his coat, his weapon after holding it up for the robber to see it. „Mister Holmes, what are you...", Lestrade started. „Trust me", he responded simply but Lestrade did not seem convinced. „Listen, I won't let this bugger shoot you right away!" Mycroft raised his eyebrows and the DI sighed and threw his head back in annoyance. Surely, he knew this manners from Sherlock, so he nodded against his better judgement. Mycroft slowly began to walk towards the criminal, only left in his suit and with his umbrella in his left hand. Clara's eyes went wide in shock and she shook her head at him, trying to tell him to stay away. The man let him near for about five feet. „Stop!", he screamed and Mycroft stood. „In case you wanna stick my eye out", the man hissed and closed his hand around Clara's throat from behind. Doing his best, to avoid her gaze, Mycroft lifted his umbrella into both hands. „No", he answered calmly. „That would be far too mild, don't you think?"

Then time seemed to stop when the umbrella became unfolded, the criminal shifted backwards with Clara and from the tip of the visor a shot was released. By the time Mycroft had pressed the button on the underside of the handle, he felt a burning pain striking his shoulder. The criminal had shot him just in time before he died. The dead body landed on it's back, pulled a screaming Clara with it.

Mycroft was above her immediatly, pulling her away from the criminal's grasp and shielding her from the police officers which were running into the building now. He felt Clara pressing into him from underneath, holding on to him for dear life. There was a whole in the Santa Claus mask, just between the eyes, blood dripping out of it. The others had fled, obviously. _\- Should have been here sooner! Sooner! Turning down all three of them. Saving her this horrible experience!_

Scolding himself, he dropped his head and found her staring up at him, her hands fisted in his suit jacket. He watched her chest raise and fall under her unsteady breath and listened to it, falling out of her mouth. She was alive and unharmed. Her eyes were wide and some tears were rolling down her cheeks. He raised his hand to brush them away as a hot pain striked through his left arm. He hissed involuntarily. „Mycroft, your shoulder...", she began, her voice breaking. „He could've killed you! He could've killed you, are you out of your mind? What were you thinking?!" Her large brown eyes kept filling with tears.

„I shall be fine", he assured her. She shook her head in disbelief, sat up and hugged her arm underneath his right shoulder. She pressed herself against him as hard as she could, her face buried in his neck, her whole body shaking like a leaf. Mycroft let his arm silde around her shoulders and closed his eyes. „It's alright", he murmered into her hair. He could smell the gunpowder of his shot lingering in it and although he felt relieved he could not ignore the ugly feeling of guilt that was clinging to his chest. „You are safe now".

Yes, she was alright. Because of him. She pressed her face against his neck, searching for his warmth and comfort. She felt his pulse, smelled his cologne and cigarettes, listened to his deep steady breath and whished he would never stop whispering words of assurance to her in that low baritone that was his now gentle voice. Clara was aware of the fact that she was clinging to him like her life depended on it which had been true only a few seconds ago. He'd saved her. He had just risked his own life to save hers. Him, Mycroft Holmes who had stamped the sentence: „Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity", him who never acted without logical backround. Why would he do that? Wasn't he meant to put his life above all others as the British Government himself, a man far too important to die?! Slowly, her fear faded away, she forgot about the other hostages, the police and the helicopter above them. A great warmth filled her heart, when she moved her face away from his neck, lingering there for another moment, breathing him in. Slowly but surely, she pressed her forehead to his, watching his gaze. He swallowed but did not flinch, his right arm still safely rapped around her shoulders. Clara heard her own heartbeat and her blood rushing through her ears and her affection for him bloomed stronger than ever in her heart. She carefully raised her chin, her mouth just about to touch his lips, a whisper away from a kiss before he dropped his head, out of her reach. But he did not turn away even though he exhaled a shaking breath. She kissed his cheek instead three times and held on to him still.

He had rescued her. He had come after her and risked his own life for her. He had nearly died doing so. The bullet in his shoulder was proof enough. She remembered his wound all of a sudden and pulled back to look at him. He raised his head again and let his eyes scan her. „You are freezing", he stated. And he was one to talk without his coat. Anyway she thought that none of them could feel the cold properly for the huge amount of adrenaline that was being pumped through their veins.

„You're freezing _and_ bleeding", she answered, her eyes fixed on his left shoulder. Mycroft hesitated for a moment before he pulled back as well. „We should get up", he said, all dry and cold again. Clara nodded and let him help her up by the hand. He closed his eyes for a moment, clearly taken aback by the sudden pain the wound caused him while moving. It was curious to see Mycroft in pain. She'd always thought him invulnerable, solid as a rock. It must've been horrible for him that she could see him like that, he avoided her face after opening his eyes again and seemed to be far away once more. Far away from her. She wrapped her arm around his waist to steady him, they turned and walked to the ambulance. When she tried to shift her weight, he released his grab on her shoulder a little. „There is no need", he uttered and kept on walking. The ambulance men had meanwhile once ran into the building and out again for inside nobody seemed to be wounded. Clara sighed in relief, slowly coming back to her senses. Her gaze wandered to the umbrella the politician carried in his hand. „So,", she looked up at him in wonder. „Not a weapon, then, yeah?", she raised her brow and couldn't fight the smile appearing on her lips. Mycroft seemed to concider an explanation but decided against it and smiled back at her.


	11. The almost night

The almost night

New Year's Eve had always been even more annoying than Christmas Eve. The next day the streets would be full of empty bottles of sparkling wine, ruins of fireworks and still drunk teenagers. He hated everything of it: the noices, the people, the smells. But nonetheless he had made it through another year, a year full of terroism, murder and scandals. A year with Sherlock hunting down Moriarty's network. A year with the great lie of his death. A year with Mycroft checking up on John who had finally moved out of Baker Street, Lestrade who was freshly divorced and smoking again, Mrs. Hudson who had not changed at all and most of all: Clara who had become his friend.

Mycroft eased himself out of his suit jacket carefully, trying not to move his left shoulder more than necessary. Even though the bullet had been removed immediately six days ago, after he'd been shot by a dying bank robber whom he had killed himself, the politician was still in pain. His doctor had given him some pain killers but he would not use them. He knew how easy it was to fall into addiction, Sherlock had been proof enough for several years. And the older Holmes had always been able to stand a great value of physical pain as long as it didn't turn into a migrane.

Gritting his teeth, he remembered why he had chosen to avoid leg work years ago. Mycroft was a man who hardly left the house except for absolute exceptions. Last week had been such an exception, he would have almost gone so far to call it an emergency. Clara Oswald had involontarily been dragged into a crime and had told him so only seconds before it actually had begun, on the phone. He had not seen her face, he only could have imagined her eyes. Those deep brown eyes of hers which had been hunting him for nights (and days). The last time he remembered dreaming was at the age of 11. For a few weeks now, Clara had been present in his mind while sleeping. He could not even avoid her image while he was awake. Somehow she had managed to get into his mind palace, pictures of her covering several walls there. If it only had been a room. A room he could've locked and turned his back on, deciding never to enter it except in his sleep. The dreams. Oh, what dreams she gave to him! He closed his eyes with a sigh. _Beautiful but so disfunctional._

Of course he was aware of what was happening to him.

The moment she had been in his arms, safe and unharmed, he had felt a relief so great it had almost taken his breath away. The way she had hugged him tightly, seeking for comfort, his comfort. Nobody would ever get the idea of feeling comfortable with Mycroft. He knew he was difficult to stand, he was cold, distant, polite only because it was appropriate even while facing idiots, far too honest in personal matters and focused on his work. But Clara Oswald was able to see behind all the things he thought he was made of, reaching for a side on him he had buried and forgotten a long time ago. She was actually trusting him and a part of her firmly believed that he could protect her, drag her from the ocean and carry her out of the fire. And she'd acted on it.

It had not been because of him, naturally. She had been in shock. Not thinking straight when she had raised her lips to his, almost touching. Her eyes staring into his, wide and open. And it had been tempting for him to give in. To just lean in and kiss her. To feel her again, holding her closer than most, freezing time before they both felt cold.

But he would never do it again. He had promised himself after the first time.

_Just this once._ He had stolen a kiss from her and it was supposed to be one single kiss which he would hold and save in his mind palace, closed up in a secret room behind a bookshelf and a safe, savored like a precious diamond. One moment he had given himself away. One moment when she had been his. One memory only for him. Nobody else would know and nobody could ever take this from him. Just a taste of love. Love – was that what he felt? Mycroft understood the chemical reactions of his body towards hers. He clearly desired her and if he was being honest with himself he was well on the way to fall for her. And he was always honest with himself, it was only logical, so he was. Pretending never had been efficient.

Feelings would get in the way, he would mess it up, fail and probably she would suffer, too. That would not be but Mycroft knew he was unable to stop it. Clara had become to mean something in his life by visiting him every week for a year now, being a constant visitor and carer, and it all had started with a lie. The great lie of his brother's death.

But one day she was to find out. And she would hate him.

He blinked and shook himself off of these thoughts. It would happen anyway and he would deal with it. He was not sentimental.

The politician opened his notebook and clicked a specific file: I.W. _Impossible Woman._

She looked at her face in her pocket mirror and tried to figure her scared expression out. Had her eyes been wide open? Had her lips been trembling? She could not remember how or what had happened to her face when she had thought she would die. All she could remember was him. The way he had ignored her completely but his attention always with her. His arms around her, pulling her from the ground, holding her closer than ever. Saving her.

The feeling of his warmth on her skin. His voice so gentle, almost loving. Clara had never heard this kind of tone of him before. Soothing and calming, words so softly spoken to her. Her heart was racing only by the memory of it. The young school teacher could not help but wonder. What was happening to her? Was it just for what he had done? Or was it him? She bit her lip and got out of the cab. Rushing to his front door to escape the rain she hesitated pressing the bell. Could it be? Could she imagine to feel more for him than just friendship? He was Mycroft Holmes, for god's sake! He did not do such things like relationships. To be honest, Clara wasn't even sure if he liked women. Well, he had kissed her, had he not? But feelings? Did Mycroft have feelings? Maybe she was wrong about him. Maybe she was wrong about herself. She pressed the door bell and decided to watch her reaction towards him carefully this evening. Probably she had just been in shock and reliefed that he had been there. Somebody she knew, a friend. It would have been the same if he had been John, surely. She crossed her arms and looked behind her down the street. It was dark and almost empty, only three people walking it. She turned her head when the door was opened and she forgot how to breathe. Mycroft gave her a smile and stepped aside to let her in. He was dressed in a shirt, trousers, a dark blue tie and the black pinstripe waistcoat. Clara thought he looked quite attractive that way. _\- Well done, Clara! Not attracted to him at all!_

With a smile she stepped inside and delivered him a box with new baked biscuits. Since she had not been able to bring them in time, she had decided to make new ones. „Maybe a bit late but still delicious!", she said happily and got out of her jacket while he took the box from her. „Thank you very much", he said. „My mother sends me biscuits every year, you know".

„And you don't like them?"

„Of course I like them, in private", he seemed a bit uncomfortable and his hand placed itself against his stomach. Now she remembered. Sherlock had always made fun of his older brother being on a diet. She shook her head and snatched the box from him. „Cheer up, the last two weeks of the year is diet-free-time, unwritten rule."

With that she made her way to his kitchen as if she was home. She placed the box next to the sink and opened the cupboard, looking for a plate.

„To the left", she heard his voice from behind. She looked back at him, seeing him standing in the door frame. His expression was interested, watching her behaviour but not stopping her either. „Thanks", she smiled. „You know, there is really no need for you to be on a diet anyway". The words were out before she could stop them. _\- Damn. Clara, shut up!_

Surprised by herself she looked at him once more, he raised his head in confusion. She cleared her throat and made her way to the living room with the plate in her hands.

About two and a half hours and a long chat later the biscuits were almost eaten up and Mycroft had made tea for the third time. It was then when he checked his pocket watch. It was half past eleven.

„Do you not have any plans for tonight with your family?", he asked and got up.

„Tonight, no", she answered, checking her own watch. „And now it's too late anyway. Do you have a bottle of sparkling wine here?"

„I do", he stated, quite unsure what to make of it. Clara couldn't help but smile at him.

„Well, then, you should fetch it! It's almost midnight, the year's almost over".

He tilted his head at her. „So?"

At that she laughed so hard as if he'd made the best joke she'd ever heard. „Oh, come on! We have to clink glasses!"

„It is just a system of counting time, Clara. Why do people have to celebrate age and time in this massive ceremonies? It is highly unlogical..."

„Oh, shut up and fetch the sparkling wine!"

Mycroft, obliging as he was walked into his cellar and joined her back in the kitchen with the bottle. Clara had taken the glasses out of the cupboard, searching by herself. She could feel him watching her intensively. „Why is it, that you want to spent New Year's Eve with me?", he asked, standing behind her in the doorframe. Opening the bottle with a _plop _she looked back at him with a smile. „You may not know it, but that's what friends do", she said and poured the glasses.

„Aaaand since you had to spent Christmas Eve on your own again, I think it's time for a nice New Year's Eve", she added. And he got into it. „I was not on my own", he stated.

„Yeah, well, you were in hospital", she said. „And you wouldn't have me come over for visit".

She was almost a little bit disappointed by that fact. She had texted him, asking him how he was feeling, wishing him a Get well soon and asking for a visit. But the answer had been a polite „No, thank you. This will not be necessary".

„Clearly", he answered. „I had enough trouble to keep my parents away. And I wanted to save you the trouble." _The trouble?_

„You can't be serious", she felt anger rise inside her chest at his words and turned towards him, the bottle and glasses forgotten. „Can't you imagine how terrible it must be for your parents after what happened to Sherlock? It must be unbearable to lose one son and then the other one getting shot! Every mother and father would be out of their minds, for god's sake!" He raised an eyebrow in disbelief as she went on: „Besides, it was me being involved in the robbery, so _I_ got _you_ into trouble, not the other way around", her hands on her hips.

„And I was stupid enough to make you wait for almost too long", his voice perfectly steady.

Then it hit her: he felt guilty for what had happened to her. She had never thought about his perspective, never believed it would get to him. But it appeared that it did and that meant one thing: he cared for her. Letting her arms drop, she took a few steps in his direction, calm again and stopped in front of him, only inches seperating them. He didn't move, his eyes never leaving hers. She carefully reached out and placed her hand on his arm, soothing him. Feeling his warmth through the thin fabric sent shivers down her spine and she shook herself slightly. „You saved me", she whispered almost inaudibly and wasn't sure if had heard her. „I didn't even say thank you", she added with a smile. His face still unreadable, he brought his hand up and cupped her chin gently. „There is no need for you to thank me". One stated sentence, that's all it took. One sentence to leave her mind blank and all her guards down. She was helpless.

Did he know that he was only making it worse? Did he know that in this moment there was nothing more she wanted to do than to kiss him? He must've known. He was Mycroft Holmes, a genuis, deducing everything within the blink of an eye. Clara imagined her desire to be so obvious to him that it was almost embarrassing. Surely he thought her to be desperate. And maybe she was, she didn't know. She knew nothing. Her mind was blank and her body on fire.

He looked into her eyes, watching her pupils dilate within seconds. _\- Nervous, excited. _

His touch never leaving her, he let his fingers travel from her chin down to her neck where he could feel her racing pulse. Her breath faltered. _\- Desire. _

Before he could think about how to handle a woman who desired him, she had gotten on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek softly. „Thank you", she whispered against his skin and his eyes fluttered shut at their own accord.

„Clara".

He didn't recognize his own voice, so deep and quiet and so _wanting._

This was bad. He could not give in, he had promised himself. He thought about Sherlock who was very much alive, reminded himself of the unspoken promise he had made. For all their sakes, he could not give in to the young school teacher. He had to resist her. So he took a step back, away from her, his Ice Man mask back in place. After one deep breath he said: „You are welcome".

She opened her mouth, shut it again and blinked as if she'd just woken up from a dream. That's what it was in the end. What it would always be between the two of them. A dream. But now it was time to wake up again. As if she'd read his mind, she turned around abruptly and walked back to the sink, shaking her head slightly. She didn't say anything while she was finishing the glasses. Mycroft closed his eyes and suppressed a heavy sigh. It had been the right thing to do. The only logical thing to do. Never get to close. Especially not to her.

She avoided his eyes when she handed him the glass and he could see that she was hurt. _\- I had to. It would only get worse if I had not._

He was just about to say something when they heard the sound of fireworks outside. Clara checked her watch and raised her glass, smiling at him. A smile that did not reach her eyes. They were haunted, haunted with pain. Pain caused by nobody else but him.„

Happy New Year, Mycroft Holmes". Letting the subject drop he raised his glass to hers and they met with a soft _cling._

„Happy New Year, Clara Oswald".


	12. The brawl night

Thank you guys so much again, feel very honored by your kind words!

Trying to keep writing whenever I can but uni life is very busy at the moment, so please be patient.

xxx

The brawl night

What the hell had she been thinking? That he would gather her into his arms, lift her up and carry her to his bedroom right away? Would pick her up from school next day, riding on a great white horse, pulling her up and disappear into the sunset? Stupid, just stupid!

Clara pressed the red marker on the class test of Calvin Powers, writing the letters: IS THIS ENGLISH?!

She just realised she'd almost broken the paper when she leant back in her chair and let out a heavy sigh. Her frustration was taking over her working profession, that was not supposed to happen and simply inaccetable. She placed the marker on her desk and closed her eyes. How could she have been so naive?

Just because he was bearing her presence in his house for over a year now did not mean that she meant something to him. He kept her around as a friend, something she had started and he simply did not mind it anymore. Her visits were tolerated by him and he had saved her from the bank robber because he was the British government and a gentleman. It would just be against his code to tell her to leave, he was just too polite. He would possibly be annoyed every time he heard the door bell on Sunday nights. On the other hand he had always greeted her with a smile for the last few weeks. Not his official smile, the smile for the ministers, the queen and the Prime minister. Mycroft had shown her his secret smile, his real one, a smile saved for specific moments and specific people. A smile that reached his eyes, so fine and soft it was hard to see for strangers. Or had she been wrong about this as well?

With an annoyed groan she stood up and walked into the kitchen. She needed a glass of wine right now! He was Mycroft Holmes, for god's sake! He did not think like that. He was not interested in her that way, probably never would be. And she found herself longing for his touch, seeking his attention, literally throwing herself at him. Last week's New Year's Eve they had only been a whisper away from touching again. With her letting her guards down, being completely open to him which she was anyway because Mycroft deduced everything! Sherlock had been stupid in comparison to his older brother, so how could Clara possibly know what he saw or did not see when he looked at her. Probably he saw a young woman, desperate for a man's attention, compensating her boring private life, seeking for a new adventure after losing the Doctor and Sherlock.

Perhaps he knew about her phantasies as well. Not her phantasies in the first place but the ones that came to her at nights. She could not keep him out of her head, her dreams haunted by him. Dreams in which he touched her the way she was longing for. She'd had dreams of his lips, his hands all over her body. His deep voice whispering her name, over and over again, his breath hot against her skin.

Everytime she woke up from those exciting, far too realistic dreams she would find herself out of breath, her hair damp with sweat. There was a certain chance for her to lose her mind, she thought. With him always keeping his distance even when they were so close, she'd have to accept his decision. He saw her as a friend, maybe. Clara could never know for sure. She could not read him, she was not Sherlock, she didn't know how Mycroft felt because he would never share his feelings, if he had any.

Shaking her head and holding back tears of anger (about him, herself and Sherlock for dying) she fetched her stepladder and climbed on it to reach for a bottle of french Bordeaux she kept on top of her cupboard. Her fingers missed the bottle and touched the surface. She could feel dust and some cobwebs and something else. Something small and round.

His brother had not been spotted for the past two weeks. It could have been a trick of him just to annoy Mycroft but the politician knew better. Sherlock had last been seen in Hungary, 15 days, 7 hours and 20 minutes ago, hiding in a cheap motel, not far from the croatian border. There was a 79 percent chance that he was in Slovakia by now. Mycroft knew Sherlock far too well to fall for such a basic trick. The remaining 21 percent could only mean one thing: trouble. Serious trouble. Mycroft suppressed a sigh. He'd already had Anthea check up on the latest data and his minions following his brother's tracks. With the elder Holmes telling them what to look for they would most certainly be successful.

He'd just ended his phone call when he heard the sound of strong high-heeled steps in the hallway. _\- Clara Oswald._

„I don't care if he's available or not! I wanna talk to him! NOW!"

„Mister Holmes is very busy right now, if you could call later..."

„I said: NOW! And I'm very willing to sit down and wait here until he comes out!"

That much he knew to be true. She was stubborn, especially when she was angry. She would have chained herself to his office door if necessary.

Wondering what he could have done wrong this time, he pressed the button and told his PA to send her in. He closed his notebook and folded his hands on it. What could have enraged her so?

The massive metal door was pushed open by Clara who had thrown herself against it with all her weight. She kicked the door shut with her heel, walked up to his desk until she stood between the two chairs and held up her hand. She was holding three little cameras.

„Tell me that's not true!", she hissed, clearly suppressing a yell, her chest moving up and down under her hectic breath. _\- Angry. Disappointed. Feeling betrayed_

For two seconds only he had to overthink. He had not expected her to find the cameras, of course. Nobody but Sherlock ever had. „Tell me that you didn't bug my flat!", she screamed at him now, slamming the mini cameras on his desk. He didn't say anything. She was beyond the point of a rational conversation now. He trusted his silence to be confession enough and it was. Clara shook her head and walked around the room, her hands on her hips. She took a few deep breaths before she turned back to him, her eyes now clearer off fury. „Why?", she pressed. „Why would you do that?"

Because it had been a logical step. He would not say that, he decided. It would only enrage her more. „I am sorry".

She laughed without humor and took a few steps back, looking him up and down. Was she trying to read him?

„You can't be serious, can you?" _\- Partly shocked by her latest discovery_

After dealing with the bank robbery he had to make sure that she was safe. That nobody entered her home when she was out, that nobody came in at night. He had almost lost her because he had not been able to watch her surroundings. Lose her? Did he ever have her?

„I had to make sure that you were safe", he stated and leant back in his chair. „I was told that friends do this sort of thing". Friends, was that what they were? What was she to him? What was he to her? Mycroft found that he had no idea. This was strange and alarming to him. He was able to define anything. Every person, every machine, every realtionship just by looking at it. Why was she any different?

„But not by supervising!", she yelled and walked forwards again. „This is my home, my private space! Have you _ever_ heard about privacy?!" She placed her hands on his desk and tried to calm down, her breath shaking. Suddenly she raised her head and gave him a piercing look. _\- She knows_

„Did you watch me?", her voice was quiet. „Did you watch my every step over CCTV? Did you watch me like some public subject? Did you?"

He had, indeed. London was full, large and dangerous. Anything could happen to a pretty woman being on her own. „I am sorry."

Her eyes went wide in shock and began filling with tears. Why did women always had to cry?

„I did so from the very beginning, from the first time we met. You knew", he claimed.

„You...", she swallowed hard, gathering her thoughts. „You had no right, you...", she took a few breaths again. She kept forgetting when she was angry. _\- Fascinating_

„Why?", she asked, her voice broken.

„I had to keep you safe".

„Why?!"

„I have absolutely no idea what you want to hear from me". _\- A confession, including the idea that she is being cared for_

„Well, how about the truth?", she shot back, her voice stronger now. „Why are you doing this? Watching me? Are you tricking me, is that it? Is this a game?".

„It is no such thing as a game, Clara. It never has been", he answered coldly.

„Then why are you doing this? What could you possibly hope to gain?"

His face had been open for a second too long. Long enough for her to see. She blinked, the moment she realised the truth. He looked at her and opened his mouth to say something but he didn't. It was too late to suggest something that would never be. Something he'd never intended to have.

„Hang on, no!", she took a step back, her left hand stretched out in his direction. „No, no, shut up, you're not telling me that you were observing me because I'm such a nice person and you like me so much, no! No, I don't buy it, Mycroft! It's not like that!". She was shocked, angry and still curious. But in the end she would leave. He had to make her.

He stood up slowly, walked in front of his desk and leant against it, his arms crossed. Unable to meet her eyes, he let his gaze drop to his shoes instead. „Is that so?", he asked quietly. „Do you really know my...intentions?" _\- Do you really know my feelings?_

From the way her breaths went deeper and her voice was shaking, he could sense that she was close to burst into tears. But she wouldn't. Not in front of him.

„How could I?", she asked. „If you would only show...one thing, only one small reaction, an emotion, anything!" He kept his face blank when he raised his head. _\- It 's over_

Her eyes were so full of hope, disapponitment, fear and sadness. Mycroft had never found it so difficult to keep his mask in place. She was shattering right in front of him, and he let her. It was cruel, it was cruel and selfish but he had always been that way. And he would make no exception for Clara Oswald, even if his everything screamed at him to hold her back and keep her close to him. It was better that way.

„Look at you", she whispered. And then louder: „I look at you and I see..._nothing_".

He swallowed before he answered. „You are right. _I feel nothing._" His face and voice were so convincing that he almost believed himself. After that he strechted his back and walked to the small table with the whiskey on it. He poured himself a glass, not looking at her again.

„If you would excuse me now, some of us got work to do". He could hear her crying now.

„Fine, fair enough!". She walked towards the door and pressed down the handle. And then turned once more. „Just don't come back when you realise that you're lonely and empty inside!".

When he heard the door slammed shut behind him, he closed his eyes. Holding his breath, he counted to ten, and then again, and again, and once again and again until he had reached 120.

He was not sentimental.


	13. The night of swallowed pride

The night of swallowed pride

„You know what I'm making now? An exit!"

She grabbed her coat, pulled it over her shoulders and left Danny Pink alone in the restaurant. Yes, he was a collegue. Yes, he was a good-looking man. And yes, he was funny. But basically everything else about him was annoying. He got angry when his soldier past was mentioned, she had to explain everything to him when it came to her making jokes, he was unable to say straight what he was thinking, he was distrusting and sceptical in every way, he was not...She stopped her tracks and turned around to look back. Not for Danny, God beware! Clara was checking on something. At the top corner of the Sainsbury market building she spotted a camera. It wasn't moving but maybe it just had and she didn't see. Keeping her breath even, she rolled her shoulders back and walked down the road. The trick was to not let it get to you. Even if just on the surface. She didn't care. Not at all.

She was not too far from home. After her own flat had appeared to be watched she'd decided to move out into one of the suburbs in a new appartement. It had two floors which was an emprovement for her but it still didn't seem to belong to her. Especially at evenings, she felt strange, foreign even. So she went out at weekends now with her friends now. Well, mostly. She'd had a date tonight with Danny Pink. And it had been an absolute disaster! He seemed nice, looked very handsome and was funny. Maybe it could have been a nice evening if they hadn't start a fight within the first five minutes. It had been ridiculious but Clara had found herself too stubborn to let go of her point and to simply say sorry. Knowing it was stupid, childish even, she shook her head in annoyance about herself. She was clearly out of practice. She hadn't had any dates for over a year and a half, probably things had changed. She entered her appartement and leant her head against the door. Sighing into her purse, she tried to calm down. Danny had not been rude or anything, he just was not..._No! No association with...! Damn it!_

Clara threw her purse against the wall, stepped out of her high-heels and walked into the kitchen. Time for a cup of tea!

Before she switched on the lights, she recognized a shadow on the table. She stood, holding her breath. There was someone in her appartement! Grabbing for her baseball bat, she kept behind the door she said: „Hello? Who is this?"

„I would rather appreciate it if you put this thing down", a deep throaty voice answered and Clara gasped. She knew this voice. She blinked. It couldn't possibly be...! Her eyes went wide and she stepped into the kitchen, turning the switch. The room enlighted and Clara fell with her back against the wall in shock, the baseball bat dropped out of her hand, forgotten. The man on her table turned his head towards her, his face pale and haggard. „Hello, Clara", he said and gave her a creepy smile. When her heartbeat felt quite normal again, she answered: „Hello, Sherlock".

It had been his intention to stop watching her. It had been. But Mycroft found his mind restless every day he had not checked up on her. He would reduce the CCTV on her, slowly. Maybe it would be like his smoking. Some days but not constantly. Comparing Clara Oswald to an addiction wasn't probably a very good metaphor but he couldn't think of no other. She was gone for two months, two weeks and three days now and he felt...nothing. There would be no words for it and they would not be neccessary. She would not change her mind, not after what he'd done to her. He'd betrayed her. The first and probably only person in the world who'd ever trusted him.

He had seen her tonight, it was Thursday. And she'd been seeing a man. Rupert Pink, ex-soldier, now a maths teacher at Coal Hill, orphan, no siblings, no criminal data match found. Mycroft would never have thought that she could possibly take interest in a soldier. John appeared to be not attractive to her at all. But Clara was not a woman to hung to the past of other people. She'd never asked about his past or Sherlock's. Which was for the best. Maybe this kind of man was her type now, how could he know. She appeared to be quite unsure herself about what she wanted. Clearly it had not worked out. The soldier had probably bored her to death or had been the elephant in the room, something Clara would only forgive somebody she knew well and felt deep affection for. Like Sherlock. He'd found his stomach drop when she'd left the restaurant only three minutes and 36 seconds later, alone. She had been angry and maybe a bit frustrated as well. Not a good date, then. As the lightest satisfaction rose up in his chest, she turned around and looked at him. No, not him, the camera. She couldn't know. She couldn't possibly know. He furrowed his eyebrows in confusion and leant forward, adjusting the notebook for better sight. She was looking directly into the lens, just as she had back in the supermarket when she'd been wearing her yellow dress. Her eyes were serious, knowing. As if her gaze could burn him through the screen. Rolling her shoulders, she walked away after 12 seconds and Mycroft felt caught. She would never trust him again. That much was for sure.

He'd just closed the file of I.W. and went back to international cooperation with China for a few minutes when his phone buzzed. He looked up. It was his private phone. Checking the number, he almost dropped it. _Clara Oswald calling_

It took him four rings to finally pick up and she was already angry with him. Or maybe she'd never stopped being angry with him, she didn't know. She only knew that she needed him now.

„Clara?"

„Shut up!", she closed her eyes and tried to calm down, hugging herself and took a glance at the definitely not dead detective in her kitchen. Sherlock was inspecting a fork with the greatest fascination. He was obviously on drugs.

„What's wrong?", Mycroft asked, clearly deducing her fear without even seeing her. Or did he?

„Never mind! What, no, just..shut up! Shut up! I need you!"

„Excuse me?"

Clara let out a silent groan. How did he do that? How could she still be so affected by just his voice? „I mean, I...I need your help. Now! I'm..I don't know what to do"

„Are you certain that this is a matter of..."

„Shut up and come here at once! Do you really think I would be asking if it wasn't important after what you've done to me?!"

Silence.

„I will be there in 7 minutes", he hang up and Clara sighed, pressing the phone to her chest.

Sticking her head in the kitchen, she found Sherlock laying on the table now, his hands stretched out to his sides. „Did you know that a kitchen's volume is...important for pancakes?"

She didn't answer. She didn't punsh him although he deserved it. She didn't hug him tightly like she wanted to. Clara just stood there and watched him in wonder. Sherlock was wearing a brown leather jacket, jeans, a white shirt and trainers. It was so unlike him but it was very much him according to his face, hair and voice. He had gotten even thinner, his hair was still black but shorter as usual, making his face appear in harder outlines. His eyes looked tired and tear stained. When had Sherlock ever cried? She knew this man and yet he was a stranger. Turning her phone in her hands, she let herself slight down on the kitchen wall and crouched to the floor.

They had been lying to her. Both Holmes brothers. All this time Sherlock had been alive. She had cried for him more than once. She had visited his grave more than once. Well, it wasn't a grave as it had just turned out. Just a stone. A meaningless cold stone. Like the chests of the Holmes'.

Mycroft knocked firmly on her door. Whatever had happened it must have been something very serious. He hadn't expected her to call him ever again, especially not for help. Perhaps she'd done something illegal, by mistake naturally. He shook his head in disbelieve when the door was opened. She was still wearing her jacket but her shoes were off. -_ Something unexpectantly shocking had happened._

But before he could even ask, she grabbed him by the arm and pulled him inside. She shut the door and leant against it with her back. Mycroft knew he would not have to ask when she raised her chin in the direction of her kitchen. His beloved brother was here.

The two of them walked Sherlock over to Clara's bedroom, the younger Holmes complaining about the effort of walking which was oh so boring until Mycroft let him sink down on the bed. Sherlock fell asleep on his stomach immediately, his breath deep and sound. Mycroft checked his pulse and pupils before he removed his brother's shoes and jacket. It seemed that he had not overdosed and the politician wondered whether Sherlock had injected the cocain (most obvious) himself or somebody had drugged him on purpose. According to the scratches he could see on his siblings lower arms when he rolled up the sleeves of Sherlock's white shirt it appeared to be the second option. Somebody had drugged his brother. Somebody knew about his weakness. And Mycroft had no idea who that might have been.

He looked up at Clara who was standing in the door frame, her arms hanging, unsure what to do. He was glad she wasn't even considering the question of calling a doctor. She really was way smarter than his brother's usual choice of friends.

„Is...is there something I can do?", she asked finally, her voice uncharacteristically quiet. - _She was shocked._

Of course she was!

Mycroft stood up and pulled the stool of her dressing table to the bed. „He needs to rest. He might have some wild dreams and when he wakes up he is going to be really thirsty. But usually it goes without much trouble". He sighed and sat down. Clara nodded absently.

In that moment Sherlock rolled over on his back. He looked exhausted, matured even. The handsome face he'd once had was marked with deep lines around his mouth and across his forehead. His hands were bruised and even though his breath was normal, his chest barely moved under it.

Clara took off her blazer, revealing the beautiful dress she was wearing for a date that had ended within the first three minutes, threw it on the armchair next to the door and crouched down on the carpet, her arms leant on the matress, her eyes fixed on the familiar yet strange face of his younger brother. The look she gave him was so gentle and sad as if she was thinking about to kiss him. Mycroft was sure that she had already forgotten about his presence completely and couldn't help but wonder if she had looked at him this way, as well. He was not jealous. He was not sentimental. Clara was worried and still dealing with the fact that Sherlock was alive. Besides she was still angry with him, well, at least that's what he thought. And instead of freaking out she went silent. So disquietingly silent. Maybe she would never speak to either of them when this was over.

The young woman didn't look at him when she asked: „How?"

After Mycroft had explained the Fall to her, Clara had first thought about John. Of course, he didn't know. He could not know. Nobody of them could know, right? „Who else knows?", she asked and shot the politician a piercing gaze. He'd been lying to her for over a year, letting her cry and break down in front of him for nothing! Mycroft sighed but he didn't apologize. Well, what did she expect? „Miss Hooper knows, she made it possible and a few other minions", he confessed. She wanted to scream. She wanted to yell at him that he had used her. That he had betrayed her trust, their friendship. Mycroft Holmes had let her down! And so had Sherlock. The man she thought to be her best friend. All she wanted for them now was to clear off and never speak to her again. But she just nodded and heard her blood rush in her ears and felt her fingers numb against the bedsheets the detective was laying on. This whole situation felt like a dream. She was nearly waiting for her alarm to start and throw her back into reality with Sherlock dead and Mycroft … just being Mycroft. It was almost heart-warming to watch him now. He checked his brother's pulse every five minutes, rested his palm against the lightly damp forehead and asked her for a flannel and a bowl of cool water. Nodding again, she left for the kitchen and wondered if Mycroft had done this more than once before for Sherlock. When she returned with bowl and flannel, the politician had taken off his jacket, waistcoat and tie, leaving him in his white shirt and trousers. He was just about to roll up his sleeves and Clara set the bowl down on her nightstand and left for the bathroom. She locked the door and leant against it with a heavy sigh. This could not be true! How could a man look so damned good in just a shirt? And why did it have such an effect on her, even now after all she had just learned? Her cheeks were burning and she decided to splash some cold water in her face.

She returned to her bedroom after a few minutes, her cheek's temperature back to normal, her make-up removed, her hair brushed down. Mycroft was still sitting at his brother's side, his elbows propped on his knees, his hands folded, his eyes fixed on the bedsheets. Trying not disturb him in his thinking (in _her_ bedroom!), Clara slowly lowered herself on the armchair and pulled her legs up. Sherlock was still fast asleep, the right corner of his mouth twitching slightly. He almost seemed to smile. The only way she'd ever seen him smile was this familiar twitch. Clara couldn't help but smile as well. At least he was fine and safe. She knew that he would leave again. Mycroft had informed her that the operation of taking down Moriarty's network was not quite done, yet. So, he would recover here, however he had found out about her new adress and then leave to finish what the Holmes brothers had started together. She could not really picture the two of them working together without fighting each other. Both of them were geniuses, they must have been an unstoppable force together. Maybe in that matter they'd put personal things aside just for once. In fact, she didn't care. However they'd done it, it had worked out, well, until now.

„You should get some rest as well", Mycroft's voice reached her and she blinked at him. Crossing her arms stubbornly she answered: „As you well can see, my bed is taken!". Realising that she should whisper with Sherlock being asleep, she added quietly: „I'm not leaving". For the briefest moment she'd considered a comment about the very much alive man in her bed but had decided against it. She was way too tired right now. „I won't be able to sleep, anyway", way more dirscreet, she thought.

_Calm down_, she thought. This was not the moment.

There was no point in beginning an argument about the same problem again. Not tonight. So she would pretend, she had not noticed the camera. She would pretend, she was not angry with him anymore. And maybe if she pretended hard enough, it would be alright.

Mycroft was watching her. Clara obviously wasn't in the mood for a fight but he had to explain himself. At least now that she had called him to his brother's help, ignoring her own shock, pain and feeling of betrayal.

„You are angry with me", he began and she snuffled silently. - _Great one. Very observant indeed!_

„And I realise that I may have disappointed you". He looked up at her to see on the basis of her face if he was right. She pressed her lips together and remained silent. - _Well, two for two at least_

„I am sorry, Clara. I really am." Her eyes were fixed upon Sherlock again. „You know after the bank incident I had to make sure you were safe, wherever you would go. You may say it was stupid to do so because bad things do happen every day to everyone in the world...", he was losing his point. „But I want to prevent them from happening to you". At that she looked at him. Her eyes were studying him closely like she'd never seen him before. „If this is meant as an apology", she said carefully. „I'll accept it. Even though I still don't know why".

„You wanted me to tell you the truth and I just did, Clara".

„Yes, but you didn't tell me why. Why do you want to keep me safe?" Mycroft felt his stomach drop. It was getting dangerous. He straigtened his back and suppressed a sigh. His chest suddenly felt extremely narrow. „You know why", he almost growled. Where was she going with this? What was the point in making him say something he would definitely regret one day?

„No, I don't", she whispered clearly yet softly and crossed her arms. „That's exactly the point, Mycroft. I do not know your reasons or your...feelings". Mycroft almost flinched at the word _feelings_ but stopped himself in the last second.

„I was told that actions speak louder than words", he said defensively. This was getting ridiculous! „But I'm asking you to tell me." She dropped her legs from the armchair and leant forward. „I'm asking you to tell me, just for once, please. So I know. Let me know." There it was again, the hope in her eyes, her face completely open, trusting him to do as she asked. He would never understand how she always found enough hope, greeness, excuses or whatever it might have been to trust him over and over again. He should have told her to stay away, about the things he had done, the things he was going to do. But he didn't. Instead he took a deep yet quiet breath in and said: „I do care about you, very much in fact."

She smiled and he felt a great wave of relief washing over him. „Now, that wasn't so hard, was it?"

They talked little after that. Even though she wouldn't admit it, she was tired and quickly began to doze off. Mycroft watched her fall asleep in the armchair and somehow it was the most fascinating thing he had seen in years. Her legs were pulled back up, her head leant against the soft material. When he was sure that she was fast asleep just like his brother, he rose from the stool, carefully took the bedspread from the foot of her bed and quietly walked over, covering her sleeping from with the blanket. She sighed peacefully and smiled. Slowy, Mycroft extended his hand. He let the back of his fingers slightly caress her cheek, from her cheekbone to her dimple down to the curve of her chin. His touch almost felt raw against the softness of her sunkissed skin but she didn't move.

She was ready to pretend it never happened. She would swallow her pride and anger for Sherlock's sake. He could not remember when he had admired a woman as much as he admired Clara Oswald in that moment. For her great and gentle heart, for her endless patience with him and his brother. The only one ever worth his admiration had always been their mother. It was not logical. There was no reason at all for the young woman to help them and keep them under her roof. But she did. And Mycroft would always be deeply grateful for this. He withdrew his hand, knowing that he was already cursed. She had conquered him, she had conquered him probably long ago but it was just now that he realised it.

It was stupid. So unbelievably stupid and forlorn. Sherlock would leave again soon and Mycroft would follow him much too soon. They had to finish their mission. This was his priority. And nothing else mattered. He was not sentimental. Dropping his head, he switched off the lamp on the nightstand, finding his way back to his place next to his brother easily.


	14. The feud night

The feud night

Clara got home from work at half past four. She set down her bag and walked into the kitchen to cook a meal. When she opened the fridge, her eyes widened. Leaning back she called out: „Sherlock! I told you, no body parts in my fridge!"

„It's only two fingers of the agent who drugged me two weeks ago", came the bored answer out of her living room. „Besides, I've put them in a plastic bag!"

The young woman sighed and closed the fridge again, her appetite gone. It was really difficult to live with Sherlock. She couldn't help but wonder how John had survived so long with him. Well, before the detective had left, letting all of them believe he had died.

And now Sherlock Holmes was back, inofficially. He had been drugged and somehow had found his way to her appartement which she had been living in for two months only. He still had not explained it to her and Clara doubted that he ever would. Both Sherlock and Mycroft would not tell her what was to come next. They had informed her that the younger Holmes had to hide in her appartement for there was nowhere else he could have possibly gone without being seen. She was not allowed to tell anybody about him which went without saying and she should go with her daily routine as normal as possible. She had accepted, of course. Both men were her friends and she would help them in any way she was capable of. The fact that Sherlock had first thought of her in his trouble showed that beneath his arrogant surface he knew he could trust her. And she felt almost honored by that. Even though she could not shake the feeling of being used because she was so forgiving. She had not forgiven them yet, not really. She would not talk about it because there were other priorities now.

Their mission was not over. Sherlock would leave again. The thought brought up fear in her chest and she took a deep breath against it.

Entering the living room she found the detective laying on her couch, staring at the ceiling. He was wearing a white T-Shirt, Clara had bought him last week and the same pair of jeans he'd come here in. His shorter black hair was combed back and turned one's attention to the sharp outlines of his cheekbones and his upper body. He had changed, she found. His arms and chest were way more muscular than she remembered them. Sherlock had been hadnsome before but now he almost looked like a warrior, a soldier maybe. She didn't like it. She didn't like this kind of look on him.

„Three days", he stated. „I'll leave then and you won't have to stand my presence any longer".

Clara sat down next to his laying from on her couch and looked at him. „That's not what I want and you know that", she said quietly. With a sigh she let her head sink down on his chest, hugging her arms around his shoulders and closed her eyes. Much to her surprise, his arms came up around her back. His body felt like made of steel. „I've missed you", she murmered. „I went to your grave, you know. I thought I would never see you again." She could hear his heartbeat right under her ear, the one basic proof that he was alive. His body heat was radiating through his shirt, his breath dissolving on top of her head. Even though he looked strange and different to her, his sounds, his voice, his heartbeat had remained the same. Clara had never realised how much she enjoyed the sound of his heart. The steady beat was calming down her fear and she whished for him to stay and come back to life completely so everyone would know.

His fingers stroked her hair softly. It was intense, it was intimate but completely platonic. He was her best friend after all. „I know", he swallowed. „I'm sorry. I've missed you, too." She hummed a yes and felt herself relax, the stress of the past two weeks leaving her body. It would all be fine in the end. He would return and come back to life. He had a plan that he would fulfil. Soon, John and him would go back to solve crimes, even though John had a girlfriend now. Clara had met Mary Morstan once. John had called her one day, apologized for his behaviour and invented her for dinner with him and his partner. Mary was nice, she was funny and sassy and Clara liked her very much. Actually she was the first of John's dates she took seriously. But Sherlock did not need to know that, not now when he still got a mission to finish. They all kept their secrets to keep each other safe. Maybe she wasn't any different.

She almost jumped when she heard somebody clearing his throat and sat up in a rush, staring at Mycroft who stood in the door frame, wearing a grey suit and a blue tie. His expression was blank. „I am sorry", he stated. „I did not mean to...interrupt something". He raised his eyebrows arrogantly, in a way she hadn't seen him doing it for a long time. A self-defensive way. Before she could say anything, Sherlock snapped: „Well, you did" and sat up as well giving his brother the most resentful look. Mycroft stared back for a minute before he turned to Clara. „Would you excuse us for a minute or two? There are certain things to discuss about Sherlock's leave in three days".

She nodded and stood up. „Can't wait to get rid off me, again, then.", Sherlock huffed, Mycroft sighed and Clara turned around once more. „You could be a fraction less childish, Sherlock", she said, crossing her arms, standing next to the elder one. „You wouldn't be here if it wasn't for him, so stop fretting or shut up!" The detective looked at her with wide eyes, clearly confused. Then, he began: „He-"

„What did I say?", Clara gave him a piercing look and felt like facing one of her students. Sherlock lowered his gaze and crossed his arms in annoyance but kept his mouth shut. Clara smiled tightly before she turned. „Good boy".

She passed Mycroft who was looking at her in amusement. He escorted her to the door, always the gentleman and helped her into her jacket. „I should have called you earlier", he confessed. „He seems to be quite obedient when it comes to you". She shrugged. „Teacher perk", she said with a smile. „I've delt with quite a few stubborn kids".

„I can hear you!", came Sherlock's voice out off the living room and her smile widened. Mycroft rolled his eyes and she opened the door, leaving the Holmes boys alone in her flat. „Just don't burn anything down while I'm gone", she added.

As soon as she was out the door, Mycroft returned to the living room, only to find his brother staring at him as if he'd seen a ghost. The politician sat down in the armchair and Sherlock leant forward, his elbows on his knees. „What have you done to her, Mycroft?"

He looked better, well again. His cheeks had regained some colour and his eyes were all curious. _\- Distrust towards him, worried about Clara_

„Of course, I worry about her!", the younger one snapped. „So, again, what have you done to her?"

„I have no idea what you-"

„She was defending you."

„She never liked it when the two of us were in an argument, all she did was intervening before it turned worse."

Sherlock crooked his neck and narrowed his eyes at him. He then leant back against the couch. _\- Angry, annoyed_

„When I left I asked you to look out for my friends, not to flirt with them."

„Why would I flirt with Miss Oswald?"

„That's it, why? What do you want with her? How could she be of any use for you?"

„I can assure you that I am not interested in taking advantage of Miss Oswald in any matter."

„Liar."

„Do shut up, would you?"

His brother leant forward again, studying his face. Mycroft ignored him and turned his umbrella in his hand. It was his favorite, the dark blue one, the one he had saved Clara with...

Looking up at his brother again, he watched his face enlighten with knowledge and slight amusement. He hated this expression on his brother's face. Pure arrogance!

„Oh, I'm right", Sherlock said quietly and leant back again, obviously satisfied with himself.

„The Ice man got attached, remarkable."

„Sherlock, desist. Now!"

„Well, I never thought I would see this day, you know."

Mycroft sighed and closed his eyes briefly. He was getting a headache again. „Whatever you say", he answered demonstratively bored.

„Covering someone's sleeping form with a blanket is one thing", Sherlock went on. „Could've been interpreted as gentleman's behaviour." The younger man looked around the room. „Stroking someone's cheek while that person's asleep is another. A sign of longing, don't you think?"

Mycroft felt the anger boil in his stomach, his grip around the umbrella tightened.

„Maybe even...desire?", Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

„I'm not having this discussion with you, brother", Mycroft knew it was futile to deny it, denying was just another form of confession. He stood up and walked around the living room. Facing Clara's bookshelf he heard the younger one do the same. Some English classics, Spanish authors, „100 places to see before you die"...

„Clara is my best friend, she saved me several times, she saved me last week even though she didn't have to. And even though she is ruled by emotions, they never get in the way of her mind." Hearing his own thoughts about the young woman spoken by his brother made Mycroft feel cold. Sherlock was looking for something to put him through the hoops with, as usual.

„But not when it comes to you", Sherlock continued. „You may have noticed her attraction towards danger?"

Of course, he had. It was obvious, even for Sherlock. This unhealthy urge of hers to run straight into any possible danger there was. Some may have called it brave, some may have called it stupid. For him, there was only one suitable word for it.

„An addiction of hers, it seems", the elder one said and turned around to look at his brother. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. „Well, guess what, I told her you were the most dangerous man she'd ever meet and she ran straight into your arms".

„She did no such thing."

Sherlock shrugged unconcernedly and the politician felt the strong need to punch him.

„Clara is naive", Sherlock went on while he walked back to the couch. „Naive enough for your manipulations, making her believe you're a good man. For some reason she wants to see the best in everybody even in you and me. Furthermore, she wants to feel needed. So it appeared only natural to her to turn to you after I left. Nobody would think of you but her. Nobody can actually stand you which was never bothering you until...". The detective looked at his brother, studying his face. And whatever he found there made him smile in amusement. „Well, it seems that even you need friends." Mycroft sighed and sat down in the armchair again. He touched two fingers to his dimple.

„Shut up now, Sherlock".

„Denying feelings is not the same as not having them".

„I do not have any feelings for Miss Oswald".

„Keep on denying, Mycroft. It's going to happen anyway".

Mycroft looked at him strangely.

„And what exactly do you think is going to happen, may I ask?"

Sherlock snorted and his mouth twitched.

„Oh, come on. Don't tell me you didn't notice the way she's looking at you, pretty obvious. I thought you were supposed to be the smart one".

Mycroft felt the challenge and leant forward to give Sherlock his most threatening look.

„I am the smart one, brother mine.", his voice dropped lower. „Which is why we need to discuss the following events, now."

„Stay away from Clara Oswald".

„Excuse me?"

„She is my best friend and you've already gotten her so far that it would only take a word from you to make her surrender."

„You know, I will be leaving a week after you".

„Absence makes the heart grow fonder", Sherlock lilted.

„Oh, for God's sake, are we discussing proverbs now?"

„This isn't about words, Mycroft, it's about you and what you're doing to her."

„She threw herself at me, not the other way around"

„And you cracked. Caring is not an advantage, remember?"

„Sherlock..."

„Well, it seems you've been lying to me my whole life." Even though his brother tried to hide it, he seemed offended, hurt even. Mycroft shook his head and gave up on the subject.

„About Serbia", he began and finally Sherlock obliged.

Clara returned about an hour later. She had bought some bananas and cherries, she was holding in a bag. Maybe she could convince Mycroft to stay for dinner this time, even though that meant she had to keep the brothers from each other's throats. She smiled. Sometimes she felt like a mother to them. She opened the door and had it half way closed behind her, when Mycroft came in sight. She looked at him and her smile died on her face. He looked strange, something wasn't right. His face appeared blank but there was something in his eyes she could not quite describe. Was it sadness? He let his mouth twitch just like the way Sherlock did, an excuse of a smile on his features.

„I am going to leave now", he stated, his voice thinner than she'd ever heard him speak. „Thank you very much for everything you have done. I owe you a debt." Clara let her eyes drift to the living room, where she could see Sherlock moving. She smiled, trying to hide her upcoming panic.

„No, I..of course. I mean,..Mycroft what's wrong?"

This time he smiled his real smile but in a shattered way, a way that scared her to the bones. What had happened? The tall man reached out and cupped her cheek gently, his eyes never leaving hers. He took a step towards her, pulling her in slowly until she felt his lips on her temple and Clara could not help but close her eyes at his touch. It took her much effort to suppress a sigh when she felt a shiver moving up her spine. She wanted to pull him closer, she wanted to keep him this close and tell him to stay with her like this forever. His scent and warmth was surrounding her and she felt safer than ever before. With him. Giving in, she raised her free hand and touched it to his wrist, close to her neck. He lingered for about two seconds longer than it was necessary. This felt like goodbye. She heard him inhale deeply against her temple before he withdrew and his warmth left her. Her eyes found his again, she felt like he'd just pushed her into a pool of ice water. „Thank you for all that you have done", he said quietly. Overwhelmed by all the emotions whirling through her veins she found herself unable to speak. Why was he saying goodbye? Was he going to come back? Was he leaving her?

Mycroft dropped his gaze to the floor and walked past her straight out of the door and was gone. It took her a moment to realise what had just happened. He had not said the word goodbye but in his words what else could he have meant? She blinked and rushed into the living room, finding Sherlock sitting on the floor, his legs crossed. „Sherlock, what happened?", she asked sharply.

Without looking up, he answered: „Stay away from Mycroft". Her eyes widened in disbelieve. „No", she exclaimed. „You can't tell me who to be with! What are you thinking?"

The detective turned his face towards her very slowly, his eyes cold. „He is dangerous, even more now".

Now? What was he talking about? What had changed? She shook her head and without saying another word to Sherlock she turned, following Mycroft, the bag still in her hand.

She left her door open carelessly, Sherlock could find himself a place to hide, the attic or even the cellar, she could not have cared less. Mycroft was already down the street, approaching the black Jaguar waiting for him. The light was dimm already and the sun was fading but it was still warm.

„Mycroft!", she called out and he stopped his tracks immediately but did not turn around. When she had finally cought up with him, she stood in front of him, searching his face. „What are you doing?", she asked bluntly.

„I am going to drive home", he answered, knitting his brows and she felt like slapping him again. „Shut up, you know what I mean!", she hissed. The politician lowered his gaze, not looking at her. „Listen to Sherlock", he said, his voice all quiet again. „It is better that way".

Clara felt tears moving up her throat but she pulled herself together. „No", she said, shaking her head. „No, don't say that".

„It is for your own good."

„How do you know what's good for me? How do you even dare to suggest...", her voice was shaking.

„_Clara_, please", at that she held her breath. Her own name had just sounded like a plea. Mycroft pleaing? Never, she decided.

„Let it go", he said, his expression impossibly soft now. As much as she wanted to look at him like that a little bit longer, she knew it would break her. And she would not break, not this time. So she swallowed and closed her eyes, knowing that this was the end. „I am sorry", she heard him whisper and then the sound of his shoes along the pavement. She waited until the sound of the car had vanished into the distance and walked back to her appartement, not looking back.


	15. The last night - Part I

The last night – Part I

Nine days later...

Anthea had brought him the last files of the day as Mycroft had pourred down his third whiskey. „Are you alright, Sir?", looking up he found his PA standing in front of his desk, her face slightly concerned. Sometimes he forgot she was caring, at least a little bit. When he didn't answer, she placed her notes on the desk. „Departure at 5 am tomorrow, arrival at 8:30. You will be welcomed by our man Victor who will..."

„I know!", he cut in sharply, slightly huffish. He looked at the empty glass in his hand and saw his distorted reflection in it. Mycroft knew he should have been alarmed by his appearance. His skin was pale, his eyes tired and the wrinkles on his face ran even deeper. He looked as exhausted as he felt, wrecked. Sherlock had been gone for a week now and tomorrow it was his turn to follow his brother to Serbia. This was it, their final destination. They would finish it right there and would take a plenty of time. Seven months, he had told Sherlock and it was very likely that he was right. He was never wrong.

„Does she know?", he lifted his head at his assistant's words. She had noticed her boss's sympathy for Clara Oswald. How could she not? His PA would always raise her brows and grin stupidly when she called the car to pick her up, escorting them for dinner, not-date-dinners, officially, occasionally. Anthea was way too clever to miss it. Remaining silent, he walked over to the small table on which the bottle of expensive whiskey over a decade old was standing and poured himself another glass. He was going to get a serious spirituous problem if he didn't watch out. There would be no whiskey in Serbia, then. He could not take the risk to fall in an addiction. Or maybe he already had?

„Do you love her?"

Mycroft almost choked on his drink, coughing a few times. He sat the glass down but did not turn towards his PA when he answered: „I believe this matter goes beyond your professional duties, Anthea", his own voice sounded way to hoarse and he cleared his throat. The woman sighed behind him. „Don't you think you should let her know?"

_Let me know._

It was too late. He'd already said goodbye to her, nine days ago. And he had hurt her, again. It was what he always did.

He was not sentimental.

Returning to his desk, he picked up the last files and handed them to her. „If that would be all, please call Thomas to collect my garments from my house. He will receive the spare key from you."

Anthea nodded and made her way out of his office. Mycroft sat down again and opened his notebook. He clicked on the file I.W., it was time to let go. When he had it deleted from his hard drive completely, he closed his notebook again. That was it.

She had never been his to keep, she never would be. They had shared this dream for almost two years now. A dream of not having to be alone. A dream that caused the illusion of redemption.

„_The promise of love, the pain of loss, the relief of redemption" - „Don't be absurd!"_

His brother had fallen for the oldest trick in the universe with the woman. He had met Clara Oswald soon after the events with Irene Adler, 21 days to be precise. A coincidence? The universe was rarely so lazy. What was she? Why had she turned to him? Why him?

He had judged Sherlock for being that obvious, he had almost felt pity for him and now he was falling for the same basic trick as well. He had to delete it, now. It was over and he would be gone soon. It was time to wake up.

She was dreaming of him, again. She'd had dreams of him for the past months but this one was different. It had nothing to do with sexual fantasies or imagined arguments. This one was peaceful, sound. She was laying in her bed, the covers pulled up to her belly when she opened her eyes. He was sitting next to her on the matress, looking at her in the darkness. First she didn't know what to do. Pretend to fall asleep again, sit up and send him away? It didn't matter. It was her dream.

„You came back", she heard her voice saying. The light of the moon was illuminating his face just enough so she could see him smile down at her. Her dream version of the man was very close to the original, she found. The black pinstripe suit, the blood-red tie. Her mind even seemed to copy the colour of his eyes perfectly. Clear blue in the moon light, so beautiful. _\- „If he could just keep standing there. So beautiful." _

She smiled, enjoying the sight in front of her inner eyes while her gran's words were echoing through her head. His hand was caressing her cheek softly and Clara remembered their last meeting. „I miss you", she whispered. If only he could stay with her. - _„I wanted everything to stop."_

„Shh, this is a dream", he answered barely audible. „Go back to sleep." Somehow she felt numb and found herself not able to move. Always something wrong even in the most beautiful dreams. „When I wake up you won't be there", she sighed as her vision began to swim and darkness surrounded her. His voice was fainting. „I am sorry, my dear."

„_I love you"_

She'd just closed her eyes again when it hit her. This was not a dream. It was reality!

„Mycroft?"

Her eyes flew open and she sat up in a flash. Mycroft flinched in surprise for she had almost hitten him with her forhead but remained seated next to her on the bed. She was both surprised and not surprised to find him there. Wordlessly, she stared at him, not sure what to do or to say. Her senses slowly came back to her again and she recognized it. The smell of cologne, whiskey and...no cigarettes. Still sleep-drunk, she felt cold in her top and yoga pants and shook herself slightly. He had not moved, kept staring at her and she wanted to see him properly.

She leant forward, reaching for the switch of the bedside lamp.

„I'd rather appreciate it if you didn't", his voice was raw, like a growl. Confused, she drew her hand back from the switch, the other finding support on the matress. She could see the outlines of his face barely but he seemed to be afraid, according to his posture, slightly leant back, away from her, his hands on his sides. He had not brought his umbrella, she realised. „Umm, okay", she said quietly and wondered why she was whispering in her own home. „What're you doing here?", she asked louder. The fact that she didn't even wonder how he had gotten in her appartement should probably have scared her but it did not. The fact that he had been sitting here on her bed, watching her sleep should appear creepy to her but maybe she was still to drunk from sleep to actually understand what was happening. Although she felt quite awake in fact with her heart racing like mad and her blood rushing in her ears. They couldn't see each other properly but they were sitting so close that she could feel his breath against her chin. Furthermore she could literally feel his gaze on her body and she suddenly felt naked under it. She was shivering again but not because of the cold. She was definitely not sleeping.

„I am expected to leave for Eastern Europe today", he said, his voice not much louder than hers. At that she felt a rush of fear moving through her veins.

„You're gonna come back, right?", she asked quickly. „You _will_ come back".

„Certainly", he answered calmly. „I am not going in for a sacrifice play". She had expected him to tell her that he was not going to war. But actually he was. To a different kind of war. She let her head drop.

„And you wanted to leave just like that? Without even saying goodbye, just like him?"

Sherlock had been gone for over a week now. Clara hadn't even woken up when he had left in the early morning. She'd found a piece of paper on her kitchen table, saying: _Thank you_ and that had been it. Sherlock had left like a ghost and now Mycroft had intended to do the same to her. He said nothing, a silent confession. She felt tears on their jouney up again. Why was she always crying? As she found herself unable to speak and her breath stuck in her throat, she reached for the switch and turned it on. She wanted to see him, she had to. For one last time she needed to see his eyes. They both blinked at the sudden burst of light even though it was just a warm orange shine. She found Mycroft quite close, his eyes shut. His breath was even and deep. „Hey", she said softly and placed her palm of his hand. „Look at me".

Mycroft obliged and opened his eyes very slowly, so slowly as if he was afraid of what he might got to see. Even in sitting he was still about an inch taller than her.

Clara lifted her eyes to the face of the man in front of her. His posture was straightened but he looked more tired than she'd ever seen him before. His skin was pale, his eyes haunted by shadows and she could rather feel his words on her skin than hearing them for his voice was so quiet.

„I am going to a foreign state, I will not be able to tell you which one, of course. You will not be able to contact me under any circumstances and I would appreciate your distance from my office as well." He sounded cold but she knew he didn't mean it. She knew him far too well by now. This Ice-man-trick was not going to work on her anymore. She could see regret swirling behind his irises. She would miss these eyes, these observant, sharp, discovering eyes, crawling beneath her skin and finding their way into her heart. She would miss the imposing silhouette of his. And she would miss the low baritone of his voice saying her name.

„I will miss you. Terribly", he added more softly than ever and her heart skipped a beat. When she didn't answer, he spoke again: „This is goodbye, Clara. Everything ends." He made an attempt to get up, but she held him back on his hand. She wanted to save their close proximity for all their sakes. Even if it meant she had to give herself away.

„No, not everything.", she remembered now and felt her lips tremble with fear. „Not love". _\- Not always._

He furrowed his brows in return and shook his head disbelievingly. She could see the battle going on inside of him. He wanted to run like he always did but there was something holding him back. And she knew it was her.

„Clara-", he breathed hoarsely, his resolve weakening.

„Shut up", she almost whimpered before she placed her hands on his neck and kissed him.

His arms were around her waist immediatly and he was kissing her back as passionatly as he could. He shouldn't have come here but he had found himself unable to stay away. He shouldn't have let himself into her appartement like a criminal, pokeing along the stairs up to her bedroom. He shouldn't have stayed to watch her, listening to the sound of her breath. The way she looked in her sleep had almost transferred him in awe. Her soft features bathed in the moon light. Her smile. Clara Oswald even smiled in her sleep. She had almost woken up and he had convinced her sleep clouded mind that it was nothing but a dream. But in the end she had known better. She always knew. He felt his mind short-circuiting and his manners sliding to the side with her lips against his and her breath in his mouth, her lashes brushing his cheek. Her lips parted immediatly for him as he pulled her closer into his embrace. „Mycroft", she breathed and flung her arms around his neck with a moan. God, how he wanted to hear that noice from her again, caused by him and no other. Her beautiful voice twisted in those kind of sounds, his name. Finding his mind mellow he remembered his brothers words: _„..one word from you to make her surrender"._ He shouldn't kiss her that way and enjoying every second of it. But he wanted to pull her even closer, crush her to him, still getting closer and never close enough. He wanted to be inside her. Oh God, how he wanted! He knew he was being selfish. He was selfish and greedy for taking as much as he could get from her and for some reason she was encouraging him to. He shouldn't have kissed her back but he couldn't resist any longer. Not when she wanted him just as much as he wanted her. He deepened the kiss, his hand on the back of her head, his fingers carding through those soft strands of her hair. Mycroft began to lose time in his head, something that never happened. He forgot how to breathe, so focused on her that he probably wouldn't have noticed an exposion right next to them. He felt her fingers move through is hair, her tongue gliding against his. There was an aching pain in his chest, her touch setting him afire while the room was tilting. He could feel her holding her breath and broke the kiss to move his lips along her neck, sucking on her fluttering pulse. She gasped as he pulled her even closer, his mouth exploring the soft skin of her shoulder. She was wearing a tang top and as far as he could tell nothing underneath. Feeling the arousal overwhelming him, he moved back up, his lips on her chin now and looked into her eyes which were dark with lust. She was panting, her arms still around his neck and she captured his lips again.

„This is stupid", he murmered between kisses but couldn't even think of letting go.

„Maybe", she breathed and fumbled on his red tie. His hand shot up and held her fingers, stopping her. „Don't", he said hoarsely and pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes. Her lips were swollen, her eyes almost black with desire, her cheeks and cleavage blushed. She was beautiful. He would never forget the way she was looking right now. Perfect.

„I will not take this from you", he stated, his mind now clearer. She leant back in and his eyes fluttered shut again. „I want you to", she whispered against his lips and he kissed her, less desperatly this time. This time he was gentle. And she joined in. The rush was gone and left space for tenderness. They were kissing slowly, each savouring the feel of the other. Just as he felt himself slip again, he stopped, letting them come up for air. He let his head drop, trailing soft kisses down her neck. „You deserve much better", he whispered against her skin and inhaled her scent deeply.

If only he could freeze time right now, feeling her heart beat against his own, hearing her irractic breaths, taste her soft skin.

She looked into his eyes, so blue, clear, yet full of desire. Desire for her. Clara felt her heart beat so hard in her chest as if it might jump out. It hurted to breathe and her skin was burning. Now he had finally taken his chance and she was not going to let him get away again. She kissed him deeply and let her fingers crawl beneath his waistcoat. She wanted him. And she wanted him now before he would fade from her. Therefor she had to make him lose his control.


	16. The last night - Part II

The last night – Part II

He stepped on board the private jet. It was early in the morning and still dark. Anthea had just informed him that everything was going according to plan. Mycroft sat down, looking at the cup of hot tea on the table in front of him and licked his lips. There was another taste, a taste he did not want to cover. „We're ready for taking off, sir", the captain informed him and he nodded. As the jet took off, Mycroft folded his hands under his chin and closed his eyes, his mind drifting to the past hours which he whished had never happened.

He could feel her. As she was laying beneath him on her bed, her lips on his and her fingers still trying to unbutton his shirt. Mycroft kept on smacking her hands away, never breaking the kiss. It was not enough, not enough for him. But it had to be. He would not leave her to wake up in the morning in a cold and empty bed, his visit nothing but a faint memory. But hadn't they already gone too far to stop now? Why had he come here?

He pulled away and turned, his feet on the floor but remained seated with his back towards her. Catching his breath, he folded his hands, trying to regain control. Clara moved behind him and he felt her hand on his shoulder. „What is it?", she asked, although he was sure she already knew.

„I will not take this from you", he said as calmly as he could. „I won't. It would be a mistake."

He sounded as if he was trying to convince himself not her and he knew she would not give up that easily. When he felt her lips close to his ear and her hands around his waist, he swallowed down a sigh. „Mycroft Holmes", she purred seductively and he closed his eyes. „What can I do to make you understand that I want this?". She kissed his neck while her hands travelled up to his chest. He closed his eyes briefly, pulling together all his self control and stood. „You don't really want this", he stated and fixed his tie. He looked down at her, sitting on her bed in the warm orange glim of the lamp, sheets disordered, her top slightly out of place and was ready to choke himself on his tie for not getting distracted again. He would leave. He was not a good man, he'd always been a selfish bastard but he would not be one now, not with her. Even when she thought she wanted him. Clara sighed heavily and looked down. „Can you even deduce what I really want now?", she asked and raised her eyebrows. „Interesting".

Regretting his rough turn down, he sat back on the bed, next to her but with enough distance between them. „I will not leave you with a memory that may cause you pain", he explained but she cut in. „That's already happened, Mycroft".

„I am-"

„Shut up! I'm so sick of your apologies!", she exclaimed. „You say you're sorry but later on you'll do the same thing again or something even worse! Stop apologising if you don't mean it!"

The politician knitted his brows in confusion and dropped his gaze, thinking.

„What do you want me to say?", he asked.

„No, no, it doesn't work that way!"_ \- Furious and overstrained with the situation, just like him_

Clara pressed a hand to her forehead and closed her eyes, trying to calm down. It was almost too much for him. Watching other people struggle with their emotions had always been quite displeasing for him but watching Clara struggle with hers was torture. Because he knew he was the one who'd caused it and there was no way for him to make it better. He was not sentimental. He didn't understand emotions.

„It doesn't work that way", she repeated. „Just,...I...I don't want you to go".

He smiled a bit. What a nice thing of her to say so.

„Forgive me. Never think I will not come back". She looked at him sadly and nodded, lost for words. When he got up, she grabbed his wrist. „Stay with me", she said in earnest, her eyes open and wide.

„Clara-"

„No, not like that", her fingers loosened a bit around his wrist but she didn't let go. „Nothing has to happen, just lay with me for while...until I fall asleep."

The result would be the same. He fought the idea of giving in but he'd already lost. „When you wake up I will be gone", he stated.

„I know", there were tears in her eyes and he could not stand to see her this way. „But at least I'll know you've been here and that it wasn't just a dream."

Mycroft sat down and cupped her cheek with his free hand, staring at her in wonder.

„This is not a dream, Clara".

„No, but it's not reality, either", she swallowed hard, her eyes fixed on his. „What is it?", she asked him. „What is this?"

He had no idea and he found he'd never been this careless about not knowing something.

„Does it really matter?", he asked.

„No".

Mycroft stood up and got rid off his jacket, tie, waistcoat and shoes. Clara was laying with her back to him and he lay down next to her, spooning her from behind. He switched off the light and darkness surrounded he carefully put a hand on her upper arm, she took it and placed it around her waist. Understanding her encouragement he took her into his embrace and buried his face in her hair. Breathing her in deeply, he resisted the urge to pull her closer against his chest, locking her to him, never letting go. Her body felt great against his and somehow it felt familiar, safe. It was both relief and torture to hold her that way. And he never wanted it to end.

They laid in silence for a while, enjoying the other's warmth and closeness. Hearing each other's breath, feeling each other's heartbeat. If only the world could go away. If there were only the two of them. Nothing else mattered.

Clara felt his chest moving against her back, his heart beat about to imprint in her skin. It calmed her and at the same time she was afraid. Afraid to fall asleep. He was still here, but he would be gone in a few hours and she could not touch him for it would drive him away too soon. She could not imagine to find sleep after he was gone, so she'd convinced him to stay at least for this. In the end she had to accept his decision. He was Mycroft, he was always on the run, literally and tomorrow for real. She would miss this, his warmth, his breath against her neck and the smell of his cologne. She had her hands placed over his on her stomach and her fingers slowly stroked his skin, tracing the bones and veins. She felt him stir but he did not dare to move properly.

„I will miss you, too", she whispered, both too scared and too tired to speak up. She felt him place a soft kiss on her shoulder and then heard his voice. „Goodnight, Clara".

Closing her eyes against the tears she breathed: „Goodnight, Mycroft".

When she woke up she was alone. A look on her alarm told her it was half past six in the morning. She could tell the sheets were made and perfectly in place around her.

Her hand groped the matress where his body had been laying, hours ago only to find it cold already.

The next thing she did, was to switch on the lamp to look around her bedroom, unsure what she was hoping to find. His clothes were gone. He had removed all signs of his visit, not because he regretted it, she was sure. He had wanted to save her as much pain as possible. In dizzy wonder she pressed her nose to the pillows and inhaled. A whiff of his scent was left, not a dream then.

She didn't know whether if she wanted to smile or to cry. She did neither thing.

After tossing and turning in her bed for over an hour, she got up and walked down into the kitchen. There was no hope that she'd find sleep again and in half an hour she'd have gotten up, anyway. Sticking to routine would be for the best, she'd decided. What was the point in crying over a man who was far gone by now? She made a tea and walked into the bathroom when she noticed something on the door handle from the corner of her eye. She stopped, walked back and took a closer look. An umbrella was hanging on her door, just like it had appeared out of nowhere. Mycroft had left her his umbrella, the blue one, the one with...she took hold of it and opened it, trying her best to find out, how it worked when a note floated to her feet. She picked it up and turned it around.

_Not a weapon. MH_

„I know your name", she said to herself and couldn't help but smile.

Note: So, no smutty stuff, sorry to disappoint. Wasn't sure until today, actually...

It may be a bit un-Mycroft like but I think it's better that way.


	17. The lonely nights

The lonely nights

_He pressed her wrists against the wall behind her, pushed his knee between her legs, his breath burning her skin. „Come back", she whimpered helplessly. _

„_Clara". He kissed her roughly. _

She sat up in a flash and found herself in her bed. Slowly, reality came back to her and she sighed. Three weeks. It had been three weeks since he'd gone away and left her waiting. And she missed him. She missed him more than she'd wanted to and far more than Sherlock, she found. Sherlock had become a flaw in comparison to the storm his older brother caused in her soul. And she loved him. It was a shock and at the same time it was obvious. What a fool she had been to believe it would be easy to forget him. Mycroft was still haunting her dreams, sometimes gently smiling, sometimes darkly grinning like a demon. Clara found that she didn't know him. She had no idea if he would come back for her or if it would be all different once he'd return.

Sherlock would be back, would make up with John and they'd be running again, solving crimes. It would be like Mycroft and her had never met in private. He would ignore her again and she'd try to forget what had happened between them.

Better start forgetting now, she thought two days later. Where was the point in waiting for something that was never going to happen. He obviously didn't want her and he would come back to his senses in eastern Europe, probably wondering what had gotten into him. Going back to his Ice man image.

Why wouldn't he? It would only be logical from his point of view. It was her fault, she had been the one insisting on being his friend. Clara spent the following days in wonder when she had ever given up that easily. Never, she'd always been fighting but there was also a point when the game was over. And it was.

She went to Baker Street, having tea with Mrs. Hudson once a week. The old lady had always liked her and was glad about her company. „So good to see you, again, dear", she would say, smile and offer her a piece of cake. Clara didn't like cake. But she took it nonetheless. Sherlock's fromer landlady was dating a librarian five years older than her. „Michael is so nice and his manners are the best, dear. And he's very spectacular in bed as well". Clara almost choked on the cake and decided to let the subject drop.

John called her more often now, trying to make some things up to her, after „leaving her to her own", as he named it. She went for dinner with him and Mary, it was always nice and funny, she enjoyed a good chat with them but everytime she got home afterwards, she broke down crying.

She was alone. Her days were routine and nothing else than boring and she couldn't help but feel empty. They had all left her and she had no idea when they'd come back.

„I want you to finish the book over the weekend".

Her class moaned in annoyance and she greatly ignored it. The bell was releasing them and the kids stormed out of the class to catch the bus. Clara packed her things in her bag and grabbed the umbrella leaning against the wall (she carried it everywhere now) as she heard a knock. Looking up, she saw her colleague standing in the door frame. „Danny", she said and smiled. „Hi", he said smiled back shyly. „I wanted to see, well, actually, I wanted to ask if you...em, would you like to get coffee sometime?"

Clara had to admit that she was a bit surprised. After their first and last horrible date, she wouldn't have expected him to ask again. And she wouldn't have wanted him to but now...

„Yeah, sure", she answered. „That would be nice."

„So, I said you'll have to come back later". Danny grinned like a cheshire cat and Clara laughed politely. It had not really been funny but she wanted to make it better this time. Make him feel comfortable. Dinner had been nice, so had been coffee(s) and she enjoyed another man's attention. By now she could tell that she liked Danny as a friend. He was not Mycroft but at least she wasn't alone anymore.

They were talking about work, their stories, his soldier past and Clara offered the idea that he should meet John and Mary. Two former soldiers, that would definitely be a start. Danny still seemed a bit nervous but it was getting better each date. Dating? Were they dating?

„Can I ask you something?", he asked one month later as he walked her home at night.

„Sure. Ask me anything", she smiled.

„What is this umbrella about?"

Her smile died on her face and she clutched it in her hand. „I,...I don't know what you-"

„It's been a sunny week, the weatherman didn't say anything about rain until next Tuesday and you carry it with you anyway. Actually I haven't seen you without it for weeks."

Clara felt her cheeks blush, she swallowed and looked away. There was a pain rushing through her chest like an arrow all of a sudden. _Mycroft._

„It clearly means something, then", Danny added gently, not trying to push her.

„It's a long story", she sighed and stopped her tracks. The young man stood in front of her, giving her the most understanding look. He was quite handsome, she realised. She could see his muscles underneath his blue shirt, the outlines of his strong arms and solid chest. He was an ex-soldier but different from John. Danny was taller, stronger, more athletic, actually perfectly in shape. Definitely good-looking. „It's okay, if you don't wanna talk about it now", he said. „But I'd like to know one day". She nodded and he leant in, closer to her face. Her eyes fluttered but she turned away in the last second. She wasn't ready for this. And she would not lie to him or herself just to stop the loneliness. He was a good man, and he deserved that much.

„Danny, I need some time", she explained as he withdrew, his eyebrows knitted in wonder. „I do like you but I can't go any further than friendship right now".

The maths teacher nodded and smiled to her surprise. „Thank you", he said.

„What for?"

„For being honest with me. I hate lies, you know."

She smiled back, glad that she had made the right choice. „Next time, I may tell you about the umbrella as well", she offered.

When she went to bed that night, she felt reliefed and sleep found her much more easily than it had the past months. It was getting better. She was working it out.

Note: a small bridge-a-gap-chapter...


	18. The face-off night

The face-off night

Clara was walking down the streets on a rainy day in July, when she stopped at the corner around the house her apartement was in. She pressed her fingers around the handle of the dark blue umbrella that kept her dry and swallowed hard. Sherlock was leaning against the front door in his dark coat, black trousers, and his blue scarf, clearly waiting for her. As she looked around if anybody was watching them, she ran up to him, shielding his vision with the umbrella. „There is no need", the detective said, obviously bored. „I'm back, for real now". She stared into his eyes, looking him up and down, before hugging him tightly with her free arm. „It's good to see you", she said and looked for her keys. „Let me", Sherlock said and held the umbrella for her. „I didn't know, you were carrying a weapon", he said in wonder.

„It's an umbrella", she said dryly, knowing where he was going with this.

„It's _Mycroft's_ umbrella, I'm not stupid".

Clara opened the door without a word and took the umbrella back from him. „Would you like a cup of tea?"

„Have you spoken to John, yet?", she asked as she was pouring them both a glass of water. Sherlock was not in the mood for tea, he'd said.

„I will, tonight", he stated. „Did you know about this...moustache?"

Clara hid her smile by turning away. „Yes, why?"

„I thought you liked him, you could've told him that he looks old!"

She cuckled. „Well, it seems that he needed a change." Pausing, she sat down and looked at him. „You know, he is going to kill you when he finds out?"

Sherlock snorted and leant back in the chair. „Nonsense. He'll be glad, he's got his life back."

Her stomach dropped. He didn't know.

„Sherlock, there is something-"

„I know, he's got a girlfriend. Won't be any different than the past few..."

„I think this time, it's serious", she admitted. „I've met her and...she's great. She's really nice, intelligent,-"

The detective stood and walked around her kitchen. „He will forget about her as soon as he learns the truth". His arrogance was still the same, then.

„It's what people do, they stick to their old habits. Same goes for Mycroft"

She sighed and decided not to put on an argument. Sherlock was probably right.

Considering the question of how long the two of them had been back already, she pressed her lips together. „Three days", Sherlock answered her unspoken question. „Really Clara, there is not point in waiting for a call, he won't come back for you".

She swallowed and her eyes fell on his umbrella in the stand. _How would you know?_, she thought.

„Certainly", the younger Holmes went on. „He has more important things to do like saving England all over again, starting a war with Korea, ruining my day, stuff like that".

Annoyed about his childish behaviour, she stood in front of him, shaking her head. „What the hell has he done to you? Why do you pretend to hate him so much?"

As if she'd been adding fuel to the fire, the detective started a torrent of hatred about Mycroft. His weight, his psycho-games with him when he was a kid, his arrogance, his tailored suits. At some point Clara stopped listening and sat back down, looking at her glass until he finally stopped.

„He knows about Mister Pink", Sherlock's voice was suddenly different and caused her to look up. At first she didn't understand what he was saying but then it got her. „Danny's a colleague and a friend, only a friend!", she explained. „I know that!", Sherlock snapped before he got softer again. „Obviously, you were lonely. You must've been rocking yourself back and forth.". His eyes scanned her and she felt as if being ripped apart. „You were looking for the very reverse of Mycroft and you turned to Danny". Clara found her eyes wet and her breath stuck in her throat.

„Whatever it is you have done to my brother, it still affects him and he doesn't see the most basic things. I never thought I would say that but Mycroft is blinded by sentiment, jealousy". Clara shook her head. Why would Mycroft be jealous if he had no intention of coming back for her?

She blinked, thinking about what Sherlock had just told her, lost for words.

After Sherlock had left her, she sat on her sofa, thinking. How mean of Mycroft to tell his PA to watch her while he was gone! Was he all sorted? Hadn't she made herself quite clear about supervising and her privacy? What was he thinking? And on top he wasn't brave enough to face her and just ask her right away about Danny! Mycroft thought he was strong and above all but he was nothing but a coward! Not able to act normal just for once. Breathing deeply, she tried to calm down. She would not call him, never! And she would keep his umbrella at least. He owed her that much! But what to do with it? She couldn't possibly keep on carrying it around. She would appear weak. Throwing her head back, she groaned. Sherlock was right, she had to stay away from him, it would be better that way for she would kill him otherwise. The problem was that she didn't want to stay away from him. She hadn't seen Mycroft for six months and she missed him. And at the same time she wanted to stick one of his eyes out with this bloody umbrella of his! Or shoot him right away! She was still thinking about it when she went to bed and fell into an uneasy sleep.

One week had passed since Sherlock's return when she walked past Westminster Abbey, in the late afternoon a coffee to go in her hand and Danny on the phone when she noticed the car in front of the gigantic church. She could barely see it in the dark but had noticed it nonethless. „Yeah...Danny? I'll call you back".

She hung up, not waiting for his response and walked closer, letting her eyes scan the black jaguar. Her gaze went to the closed heavy wooden doors and she felt rage raise in her stomach. It was a bad idea. She wasn't even sure if it was his car. And why would he be in Westminster Abbey, anyway? Shaking her head she turned to leave but stopped immediately when she saw the doors opened from the corner of her eye. Clara held her breath and turned her head back towards the church.

It would be a great ceremony and everything had to be perfect and of course safe. Mycroft had checked every inch inside and outside of Westminster Abbey and it was all for the little prince's baptism. Many royal guests, high members of nobility and the Prime minister would attend this ceremony and he had planned in every possible sort of attack or danger there could occur. Right now the whole building was weakly illuminated by the lamps on lowest level, so nobody could see from outside. His assistant for royal matters, Daniel, a thin man in his mid-twenties with ginger hair and very low self esteem in fact showed him some photographs which had been taken from the marksmen's point of views. Mycroft nodded and said nothing. Daniel knew what that meant for him and quickly went on with the seating arrangements. The politician listened with only one ear. It was all done and planned by him, there was nothing he could have missed and no mistakes were made under him. Oh yes, Mycroft Holmes was back in England and nothing had changed. Well, at least not when it came to buisness. He ignored the throbbing memory in his mind which was trying to come to the fore and focused on his assistant. When Daniel noticed his sharp gaze on him he went quiet immediately and swallowed hard. Mycroft was well aware of the fact that the young man feared him. Everybody did. He mauled him a while longer with his cold eyes, waiting to see if he would break. But then he let go and said: „Alright then, Daniel. That will be all."

The ginger boy mumbled a „sir" and headed straight towards the door, never even daring to hope for a thank you. But Mycroft wasn't done with him yet. „And Daniel...?"

The young man froze, like a deer in front of a shotgun. Mycroft had never been a man for hunting but his whole buisness was nothing else. He was the hunter. Slowly, very slowly Daniel turned around. „Yes, sir?", he asked weakly. Mycroft raised his brow and took out his mobile, obviously bored. „Nothing, you can leave".

When he was alone he let out a sigh. He was in a bad mood. He had been since Sherlock and him had returned from Serbia. No, actually his mood had been all dark since he had left for this mission. In the end it had all worked out, of course but that was not what was bothering him. It was the fact that he found himself not all the way he was supposed to be. His mind was still working perfectly but there were a few extras now he would have liked to get rid off. Memories, firstly.

_One week earlier..._

_Mycroft leant back in his chair as he went through the files he had missed during their trip. Sherlock was being shaved and kept his mouth shut, something he only did when he was thinking or mortally offended. Mycroft knew that in this case it was the latter. When the barber was done with his work and left, Sherlock sat up with a pained groan and Mycroft really looked at his little brother for the first time in six months. His hair was cut and trimmed back, his skin pale but rosy and his eyes were curious as always. He was fine. He was alive. The politician's eyes went back to the file._

„_You have been busy, haven't you? Quite the busy little bee". He wasn't sure why he started this unneccessary conversation. Perhaps it was a whiff of brotherly affection. Probably not. He was not sentimental. _

„_Moriarty's network.", the younger one answered, his voice rough. „Took me two years to dismantle it."_

„_And you're confident you have?". Mycroft could not help it. Sherlock was still Sherlock and he had missed obvious things before.  
„The Serbian site was the last piece of the puzzle." _

„_Yes. You got yourself in deep there with Baron Maupertuis. Quite a scheme." He ignored the shiver that was rolling down his spine. He could not unsee what he had done to his little brother. A memory that was running deep inside his system. A reminder of his failure. He had not been able to protect Sherlock as he was supposed to._

„_Colossal", Sherlock said. _

_Mycroft shook the curtain of guilt off that had placed itself upon his shoulders: „Anyway, you're safe now"._

_Sherlock hummed and there was something in his tone that annoyed Mycroft like hell. _

„_Small thank you wouldn't go amiss.", he stated.  
„What for?"  
The politician looked up from his file, facing his brother's sharp expression. „For wading in. In case you've forgotten, field work is not my natural milieu." It never had been. He was a statesman, supposed to be here and not going to look out for his little brother. He should have stayed here, he shouldn't have left...  
„Wading in?" Sherlock's voice brought his attention back to his brother who was now standing, his hand placed on the desk. „You sat down, watched me being beaten to a pulp!"_

_At that he felt like being kicked right in the gut. Mycroft kept his face perfectly neutral and swallowed the spike of guilt away. „I got you out", he said, faking a face of wonder. _

„_No, I got me out", Sherlock corrected sharply. „Why didn't you intervene sooner?". Why hadn't he? Mycroft didn't know. It had been logical not to, and still..._

„_I couldn't risk giving myself away, could I? It would have ruined everything.", he explained and a part of him truly believed that much. Another part wasn't so sure. _

_Sherlock crooked his head to the side, watching him. „You were enjoying it". _

„_Nonsense", Mycroft returned immediately. That was ridiculous, even for Sherlock. _

„_Definitely enjoying it", the detective repeated and Mycroft's patience snapped. The young one was trying to be smart again and was on a completely wrong way. _

„_Listen", he leant forward. „Do have any idea what it was like, Sherlock? Going undercover? Smuggling myself into their ranks like that?" Of course he hadn't. How could Sherlock possibly tell what it had been like for Mycroft? Leaving England to a pile of idiots, changing his behaviour, his language, his manners. He had gone away not sure how and where it would end. Unknowing of the consequences. Not sure if things would be still the same when he returned. If she would still be the same. No, she wouldn't. Of course not. He pushed the memory of a burning kiss out of his mind just in time and leant back again, emphiasing his point: „The noice, the people!"_

_Sherlock looked away and sat back on the chair. „Do you think she has waited for you?", he asked out of the blue and Mycroft went back to his files. He didn't want to know. Not really. He knew that there was a part of him that wanted to know desperately but he wouldn't let it. Because deep down he already knew the answer. No. It would have been nothing but stupid of her if she had. He had left her in the middle of the night, with nothing. Not even a promise he hadn't intend to keep. Nothing. And now there were six months seperating them and he would never be able to fill this gap even if he had wanted to. It had been forelorn from the very beginning, they'd both been well aware of this. Whatever it was that had been happening between them, it was over. They were back and it would all go back to normal again like it had been before._

_But it was pointless to argue over it with Sherlock. So he kept his eyes fixed on the file, his voice uncharacteristically quiet: „Shut up, would you?"_

The echo of the sound of the door brought him back to reality and he turned around to see if it was Daniel. But it wasn't. A small woman sneaked inside, her steps careful and quiet. Although he could not see her face clearly in the dim light, he recognised her at first sight. The black tights, the boots, the dark blue dress and the leather jacket. Clara Oswald looked as tame and adventurous at the same time as always. When she spotted him she froze in place, let the door fall shut behind her and leant against it. Mycroft blinked to make sure he was concious and not somewhere in his mind palace. But she was real. She was here with him. Sharing the same space and breathing the same cool air inside of Westminster Abbey.

She kept her hands behind her back, seeking purchase on the door knob. The lamps inside the church only gave a dim light but she could see it was him. She recognised his silhouette and his marine coat. He turned around to look at her and she felt caught somehow. She was still angry but the very sight of him, the first sight since their last encounter made her speech- and motionless. They stood about 60 feet apart, no one of them willing to move first. He suddenly straightened as if he was preparing for something and she felt like running away. She wanted to be closer to him but what if he didn't want her to? It was like all the pain and emptiness of the past months came rushing back, more intense than before. She kept her eyes fixed on him, took a deep breath and started to walk towards him. Her steps echoed along the high stone walls of the church, covering her shaking breaths. Clara was underwater, her body felt numb. When she finally stood in front of him she didn't remember how she got there. Now that she could see his face closely she felt the strong urge to kiss him, no, she wanted to punch him! Maybe she wanted to do both, she didn't know. He looked still the same and she didn't know if she should be glad for that or not. His face was still unreadable and his eyes still piercing. They stared at each other for a while until Clara couldn't stand the heavy silence anymore. „Hey", she said unsurely and tried a smile but failed completely. Mycroft nodded and looked away briefly before he raised his eyes to her face again. Was that guilt? Did he feel guilty? As much as she wanted to reach out for him, she couldn't. How could she touch him after all that had happened? After he'd obviously forgotten about her?

„_Remember me."_

She folded her hands, unsure what to do with them and did her best not to pad from one foot to the other. This felt wrong, so totally wrong. He didn't want her to be here. And even now he could not tell her this properly. Didn't she deserve that much? Didn't she mean anything to him? Had she ever? Ignoring the stabbing pain in her chest, she asked: „How was the journey?". Clara didn't know why she was acting like that. She had wanted to scream at him, tell him what an insufferable, arrogant, loathsome man he was, thinking himself above everybody else even though he was only human himself! He was a genius, yes but not a god or timelord or...

„Long", Mycroft answered shortly but strangely quiet. His voice had changed. He sounded tired, almost worn-out. She would have been concerned if it had not been for his arrogant raise of eyebrows. She had not expected him to tell her every detail of it but something, just a little bit. „What the hell have I done to you?", she asked straight forwardly. Enough was enough. He said nothing but gave her a strange look. „Have you ever had the intention to tell me?", she went on, her voice thick with anger now. „Have you any idea what it was like during this six months? I've waited for you, you know!"

At that Mycroft spoke. „I have never asked you to do so".

She shook her head at him. „Six months, and you gave me nothing! Not a call, not a text, not one sign to let me know if you were okay". The tears were on their way up again and she closed her eyes against them for a second before she swallowed. He shoved his hands in his pockets and suddenly his gaze turned sharp. Self-defense, she thought.

„I told you that there would be no contact and I can assure you that Sherlock and I were perfectly fine all the time."

„Yeah, you're telling me now that I came after you!"

„You didn't have to".

„Yes, I had to! I want answers! If I am of so less mean to you why would you have Anthea still watch me? What for? What's the purpose, Mycroft? I don't see it!"

„I had to make sure you would not get yourself into trouble".

„Why? Why would you care?"

„Your attraction towards danger is still present", he stated, sounding like a doctor diagnosing her with an illness. „There was a certain risk you would make waves, as you are doing right now."

Her eyes widened. „Making waves?"

„Clara-"

„Making waves?! You- Fine.", she raised her hands and turned to leave but changed her mind almost immediately and faced him again. „No, you know what? It's not fine! Six months and you gave me nothing! You could've been dead and I would never have known!"

Mycroft sighed. „There was no need for you to trouble yourself with this. This is sentiment. Caring is not an advantage."

„Well, guess what, in contrast to you I'm not a bloody machine reducing people to their weaknesses!" As soon as the words were out of her mouth she inhaled sharply. Shocked at herself, she stared at him. Mycroft raised his brows but kept his face blank. She knew him and she knew that her words had hurt him. But it was a truth to be told.

„Is that what you think I am?", he asked calmly. „A machine?"

Clara looked away. „You act like one".

He snorted. „People always say that."

„They're probably right", she crossed her arms.

„If you say so".

„Oh for-!". Clara threw her hands up and let them drop again, holding back the words of anger. Here they were again, in a blind alley. They always ended up like that, she realised.

„What now?", she asked sharply. He didn't answer nor did he move. Clara realised that he wouldn't stop her. She was nothing to him. Nothing at all. She should have known.

„Okay", she said and started walking backwards. „Okay, that's it! I'm out!"

Annoyed, she turned and stalked towards the door. Why had she come here?

„So be it", she heard his voice and she turned while walking and exclaimed: „Fantastic!"

With that she stepped outside and left Westminster Abbey behind her soon.


	19. The grief night

The grief night

The following week, she went out with Danny twice even though she wasn't interested in him and she knew he felt the same. When he was walking her home and she spotted one of the cameras, she demonstratively took his arm around her shoulders and leant in. Danny and her had kissed once and they'd been both certain that nothing had happened. No spark, no flame. Danny had said that he'd felt like kissing a sister. He didn't have a sister, but Clara knew what he meant because she'd felt the same. So they decided to meet up as friends, sometimes with others, sometimes just the two of them. It was nice and best of all: normal. They were talking about normal subjects, had normal drinks and normal lifes. Clara liked it, for some time. Mycroft had faded into the backround but always came rushing back when she was alone again.

And now, if he was watching she wanted him to regret it. Regret that he left her with nothing but a dream and didn't even tell her that he was back. Regret that he'd kissed her that night back in her flat and started the whole thing. Probably she should never have given in but it had been beyond her choice. Maybe she would have kissed him one day, anyway. She didn't know. The one thing she had to do now was to forget him, as quickly as possible. Back to normal, again.

When she got home on Saturday night, she was tired but happy. It had been a nice evening at the restaurant with John, Mary and Danny. The two former soldiers had talked a lot about the army and Mary and Clara had been discussing books and films and politics.

She'd just took off her jacket when her mobile rang. „Dad!", she greeted blithefully. „How are you?"

„Clara?", there was a weakness in his voice and she noticed that he had been crying. „Can you sit down?" Something terrible had happened.

„What's wrong?", she asked, definitely not willing to sit right now. „Dad, what happened?".

„I'm so sorry, darling. Your gran passed away".

Something inside her shattered.

„Clara?"

She didn't answer and leant against the wall, letting her phone drop to the floor.

Her dad was crying silently while his wife did her best to complain about the weather. It was way too cold for summer and very windy but at least it didn't rain. It had been a short and simple ceremony, only for the family. Clara couldn't let herself cry. She pulled the collar of her black trench coat together and shook slightly. She felt cold no matter where she was or what she was wearing. Her gran had been old, of course she wouldn't have been living forever but somehow it felt unreal that she had just died. The old lady had been the closest to her after her mother's death. „Shall we wait for you at the car?", her father's voice reached her ears but she just shook her head and hugged him tightly. „I'll take a cap", she said. „Just go home and rest". He pulled back to look at his daughter, his hands on her shoulders. She could see that he was trying to stay strong in front of her. There had only been one time when she'd seen him cry: her mum's funeral. He looked old today. His face had gotton more wrinkles, the circles underneath his eyes ran deeper and his stubble was silver-gray. He finally nodded and swallowed hard before taking his wife's hand and left the cemetery with her. In this moment Clara whished for somebody to hold her as well, but she hadn't told anybody because she was really one to grief by herself. Maybe it wasn't wise to do so but she had always been that way.

She crouched down next to her grandmother's grave. The grass beneath her was wet, the wind was whispering in the trees and the church bells had just taken their last chim. She let her fingers run through the flowers on the fresh soil and remembered that her gran had loved white lillies. Of course, she had brought a bouquet for her. One last time. She closed her eyes.

Suddenly there was a crunch next to her and she looked up only to see a man standing in front of her. Her heart skipped a beat and she rose, her eyes going wide. Mycroft was wearing a black suit with a black tie, matching his even black umbrella. _„Coming to my gran's funeral? Really?"_, she thought but couldn't get her mouth to work. She was way too tired and way to surprised at his visit to argue now.

Anthea had told him about the funeral, of course. He had concidered not to go for he wasn't sure if she wanted to see him at all. In the end he had decided to go because he needed to see her again. It would be on a cemetery, she could leave if she wanted and so could he. Almost neutral if it hadn't been her grandmother's funeral. He had successfully driven her away in Westmintser Abbey, being nothing but himself. Things were supposed to be like they'd been before Sherlock faked his death, before she had started to visit him, before he had fallen for her. But she was suffering a loss right now and she would hide away as she always did. And he couldn't let that happen. He still owed her that much. When he looked at her he didn't know what to say. She hadn't been crying but her eyes were haunted by shadows, shadows of loss and pain. His shadows, too. It was odd to see her all dressed in black. Clara was a woman of colour, all those green, blue, red and orange dresses of hers bringing out her eyes and underlining the beauty of her rosy cheeks. She looked cold like that, almost lifeless. He noticed that she'd changed her hair as well. It appeared blonder somehow. „What are you doing here?", she asked quietly.

The look she gave him with her wide brown eyes was about to break him, so he spoke.

„I heard,", he started, trying to avoid lying to her. „I know how much she meant to you", he said gently. „I am sorry". Knowing that she had repelled his apologies back that night, he hoped she would not do so, now. He meant it. He'd always meant it.

It was too much to see her in pain. „You have not cried yet, have you?", he asked quietly. She turned her head away sharply, proofing him right. When she looked back at him, there were tears in her eyes but not because of her grandmother's death.

„Yes", she pressed. „I did cry, you know. Almost every night I cried." He stopped his mind from producing images of Clara crying herself to sleep but he was sure they would return to him soon.

She shook her head and looked down. „You know that Sherlock came to see me. You were back and still you didn't attach importance to tell me yourself? Am I really of so little value for you?".

„You are not, and you know that", he answered calmly despite himself. He looked at her and then it got him. He had made a mistake. He had been wrong about her and Rupert Pink. Clara was not attracted to her colleague, she was still attracted to him. That was why she was so upset, feeling left behind and of no meanig to him. Which was simply ridiculous! She had to know that she was wrong, so wrong. Mycroft took another step towards her, holding her arm from stopping her to back away.

„I did so because all I ever wanted was to keep you safe", he explained.

„Keep me safe?", she asked and gave him a doubtful look. It was done, she didn't trust him anymore. „I always want to keep you safe".

Realising that it had been much of a confession he wanted to step back himself when her face was taken over by grief suddenly. With a look at her grandmother's grave she breathed: "I couldn't even say goodbye".

He could see that she was about to break down and he wouldn't leave her alone that way, not again. Never again, unless she wanted him to. Against his better judgement, he pulled her in, soothing her. „Shhhh". Her arms came up around his waist, her face buried in his shoulder as he heard her sobbing. He felt her arms tighten around him and he touched his mouth to the side of her head. „I am sorry, so sorry", he whispered as a cruel wave of relief washed over him. He shouldn't be reliefed. Not when she felt miserable. They stood there for a couple of minutes, holding on to each other when Mycroft suddenly noticed somebody behind the trees. Someone was watching them. He let his eyes scan the area around them. They weren't alone. He had to get her out of here. Carefully he brought his lips closer to her ear. „Let me take you home". Clara stopped her sobbing and nodded. They turned in silence, arms still around each other and he offered her a handkerchief while they walked to the car. Mycroft didn't turn around again but he knew they'd be followed. And he didn't know why.

Clara let Mycroft's chauffeur take her home and the politician walked her to the door. „Thank you", she murmered and turned to disappear inside. „You should not be alone now", he said out of the blue and she looked up at him in dazed wonder. Was he offering her his company? She blinked, her lids felt heavy and her whole body screamed for a rest. „Are you saying you want to stay with me?", she asked quietly. He was being weird. One week ago he'd seemed completely careless about her and now he showed even concern. Was this a game? What was he playing at?

Mycroft nodded once. „If you let me?".

„Why?", she breathed, her voice shaking.

„Remember when I said I owe you a debt?". He gently took her hand in his. „I meant it".

Clara was searching his face, not knowing what she was looking for. It was what friends did for another but was he still her friend? His words were always different from his deeds, she realised. It was confusing and unfair but she was beyond discussion right now. He was offering and she would accept. If only for today. She sighed and nodded, opening the door and let him follow her.

She was sitting on her couch, left in her black jumper and trousers when he joined her, two cups of tea in his hands. When he handed her a cup their fingers touched. She looked up at him and he stared back but his face gave nothing away, of course. It was still there, the spark, the burn, the electricity between them, the memory of his touch and it warmed her stomach. Why couldn't he just show her something? Just a move, a smile, anything? Why couldn't he just let her believe?

Casting her eyes downwards, she took the cup and stared into the steaming liquid. From the corner of her eye she could see him sitting down next to her and taking out his phone. „Don't you have a country to run?", she asked dryly, not looking at him. Mycroft understood her comment and let his phone disappear in the inside pocket of his jacket again. „I can stay away from the office for a few hours", he answered as she sipped at her tea. „This has priority now".

„This?", she asked.

„You". She opened her mouth but shut it again. There was nothing she wanted to say. Instead, she placed her cup on the couch table and scooted closer to him, resting her head against his shoulder. He let her but she could feel him tensing up. Letting out a sigh, she asked: „Mycroft, why can't we be like before?"

She felt the turn of his head before she heard his voice. „When before?".

Good point. What was it she wanted? She knew perfectly but he was trying to make sure. Was he scared? She raised her head from his shoulder to look at him. His expression was neutral but his eyes were different. They gave away his fear.

Her gaze dropped to his lips. „Before", she said and she felt his breath against her face. They were close again, so close she could almost see through him again. Close enough for her to believe that underneath his ice man mask there was a true and gentle heart. A good man. A man she could love. The man she had loved for about two years.

Mycroft, however, read her in a flash. „Clara, I'm no...boyfriend option".

„Why not?", she asked and brought her hand up to cub his cheek. He caught her wrist before she could touch him, his eyes never leaving hers.

„I am not a good man", he stated. „I have killed people, I have started wars, I even betrayed the ones close to me. I am a terrible person". She realised that she was supposed to be scared, disgusted even. But she wasn't. A part of her knew that this was stupid but...

„I don't care", she insisted and turned her body towards him, still scooting closer. Mycroft turned as well, but leant backwards, away from her. At some point, her couch was ending. She left him no way to escape even though he always could if he really wanted to. All he had to do was to get up. But he didn't.

„I left you with nothing because I cannot give you anything", he changed his point. „I cannot give you what you dream of".

At this, Clara almost laughed. „What do you know about my dreams?" - _Everything, probably._

„Don't you want to have children one day?".

She frowned. He knew her. He knew her weak points. Of course, she did. She'd always wanted children, since she'd been a child herself. How could she not? She loved kids.

„Yes", she nodded and pressed her lips into a thin line.

„You see?"

„What do I see?"

Mycroft sighed. „I never wanted a family, not even friends. I could never be a father, I never wanted to be." Right. Clara couldn't imagine Mycroft with kids. He didn't want any. A shame really but she would be able to accept it.

„So what?", she pressed, unwilling to let him push her away again.

He shook his head and she thought she could see sadness in his eyes. „We both know it would never work out." Wouldn't it? Clara wasn't sure. But neither could he be. He was afraid that she would blame him one day for that she had never gotten to be a mother. Maybe she would. But for now, she was willing to ignore her whish.

„How would you know?", she asked.

„I work for the British Government, which is, as you very well know, quite time-consuming. It would never last".

Now that was a point. He was always busy, always working. Could the most powerful man in England find the time for a relationship? „Hm", she dropped her gaze, thinking and he released her wrist, thinking he'd talked her out of it. But of course, he hadn't. When she looked at him again, she crooked her head to one side and couldn't help but smile a bit. He furrowed his brows in confusion. „Have you ever tried?"

How was she doing this? How was it that one smile and one sentence from her got him that way? Mycroft felt the logical part of this argument fall away and he suddenly felt dazed. His vision changed. All he could see was her face, smiling despite the slightly red eyes which had been crying only half an hour ago. When he'd returned from Serbia he'd been sure he was over anything that had to do with her but now he was under her spell all over again. They weren't talking anymore and he felt his heart beat speed up while his skin was getting hot. How could she have such an effect on him? She wasn't trying to get closer anymore because she knew he would do it. Before he could forget himself he stood up and walked over to the window, looking out. No spys on the roofs, he noticed. Maybe he had been wrong on the cemetery? No, he was never wrong. What if they were being watched? What if not? He tried to think straight but found his mind clouded. It was the same with her all over again. He wanted her just like he'd wanted her before he'd left for Serbia. All the need and fire of their last night came rushing back. He was supposed to keep his self-control, to shut himself off of feelings but his ears were roaring and his heart was about to jump out of his chest. He turned away from the window. „I have to go", he stated and walked towards the door without looking at her.

But Clara was up in a flash, blocking his path by standing in the frame. She didn't say anything when she stepped closer to him, and he felt his blood boil in his veins. Treacherous blood. Their faces were almost touching when he asked: „What are you doing?"

„Shh", she pressed a finger against his lips. „I'm trying to love you", she whispered.

He leant in, their lips were about to touch when the door bell rang and brought him back to his senses, making him withdrew immediately. Clara let her head drop against his chest and sighed. Another ring. And then two knocks. „Clara? It's Danny! Your father called me, are you okay?"

She raised her head slowly. „How I appreciate my Dad's caring", she said and Mycroft smiled thinly. „You should answer him", he suggested. Giving him the most regretful look she asked: „Should I?"

„Definitely", he nodded. „Wouldn't want to scare your friend, he's clearly worried". He could hear her cursing under her breath as she walked to open the front door. Mycroft used it to grab his coat from the wardrobe. „Danny, hi", she greeted him friendly. The young man smiled pitifully and then his eyes found Mycroft. The ex-soldiers face changed. - _Distrust, doubt, confusion._

He was looking him up and down and Mycroft hated it. „Ahm, Danny, this is Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's brother. And Mycroft, this is Danny Pink, a friend of mine".

_Sherlock's brother. _He couldn't say he liked this closer description. Sherlock should never be needed to explain his person, least of all by her. He took the man's offered hand nonetheless and nodded. „Mister Pink".

„Mister Holmes." With that Pink turned back to Clara. „I'm sorry, I didn't know you had company already-"

„Don't trouble yourself, Mister Pink", Mycroft cut in before she could say anything. „I was leaving anyway. Goodbye."

With that he passed the door causing Pink to step aside and left down the street as quickly as he could.


	20. The clearing night

at Wink: Actually all I can think about when I upload is how insecure I feel about the whole thing...I don't know what Mycroft would do for real but I've always felt a great empathy for his character. Thank you sooo much again! 3

The clearing night

_Three weeks earlier (The grief night):_

_Mycroft placed his cub of tea on the table in Clara's living room and took out his phone. He sent a message to Anthea:_

_Code: Hawkeye, Cemetery B4, force: unknown._

„_Don't you have a country to run?", she asked next to him, clearly offended and he let the phone disappear again. Someone was watching her and she was probably in danger. He had to check. If someone had interest in taking advantage of Clara Oswald he would be the first to know. Because there was a certain chance it was his fault. His company was dangerous. „I can stay away from the office for a few hours. This has priority now." He had meant to say that she had priority but had decided against it. It sounded too familiar and he couldn't risk giving himself away. „This?", she asked and he supressed a sigh. „You", he corrected as softly as he could. She seemed satisfied with this and leant her head against his shoulder. He tensed, fighting the impulse to put his arm around her. He was not sentimental._

Appledore was quite impressive, as he found. Modern architecture, mamoreal and viterous. „Would you fancy a whiskey?"

Magnussen and him had similar taste. The man was cold, fine-dressed and politely intimidating. Mycroft sat down next to him, a garden of exotic plants beneath their feet. „I would rather appreciate it if we would come to buisness", he said with a smile. Magnussen was a criminal. There was something he wanted from him, he was certainly not going to grant. The British Government would not be blackmailed. The man's silver-blue eyes glittered. „Oh, Mister Holmes", he said. „I have always admired the english, you know. This loyalty, this trust towards your anabiotic crown, this ridiculous patriotism, it's almost sweet. And yet, you still believe yourself untouchable". Mycroft ignored his provocations and looked out the window, already bored. „You do have, in fact, a very curious, quite annoying little brother.", Magnussen went on. „I'm afraid, he's getting in my way". At that, Mycroft's protective instinct raised. „He is a detective", he explained and lowered his voice. „It's what he does". Magnussen smiled and Mycroft hated it. This man had still an ace up his sleeve. „I would appreciate if he does keep his nose out of my buisness. As the older brother you should be able to get him under control". He leant back, extracted some photographs out of his jacket and threw them onto the glass table. Mycroft's heart stopped when his eyes fell on them. Magnusses nodded and stood, adjusting his tie. „It seems that the Ice man has even more pressure points than I thought at first."

Mycroft couldn't tear his eyes away from the pictures. One of them showed Clara Oswald walking down the street, her eyes somewhere in the distance, completely unaware of her observers. On the second picture she was on her daily jogging routine. Another one showed her sitting in a café, smiling at the waitor. „Clara Oswald. Your lovely maiden, as it seems", Magnussen purred and threw a fourth picture in his direction. Mycroft held his breath. The funeral. Their hug. This brief but meaningful moment, frozen in a picture. His eyes were closed. He hadn't even noticed he had done so, back then. „Quite a pretty thing, your school teacher", Magnussen stood next to him and bend down to look closer at the untouched photographs. „So fair and so innocent. Would be a shame if she would lose this precious smile of hers".

It took his everything not to show anything on his face. He wanted to choke Magnussen with his bare hands, he wanted to shoot him right between the eyes, he would have even battered him to death with his umbrella. If he'd only dared to touch a hair on her head he would most likely do so. When he trusted himself to speak again, he said: „Leave Miss Oswald out of this". His voice had been supposed to sound imminent, it always worked on people but Magnussen was something different. He knew things. And he never forgot them. The man was just like him. They were equals. Mycroft had found his own Moriarty. Only worse. „Oh, I shall, as long as you keep your little drug addict brother out of my way which should be easy for you. You know how to keep him entertained, don't you?". Mycroft stood and faced him. He felt something crawling through his veins, something very new and strange and suddenly he was freezing although he was still wearing his coat and there were 20 different heat sources in Appledore. Magnussen looked him up and down before he stepped behind him to round him like a lion stalked it's prey. Oh, Mycroft wasn't freezing, he realised. He was scared, terrified in fact. „In case you don't", Magnussen checked his watch. „I do. You have a school teacher, your brother has a doctor. The only two one's that count in the Holmesverse as it seems. What makes them so special?". Mycroft swallowed hard while he tried to control his shaking hands. Then he turned to face his enemy again. „You would not dare", he pressed but Magnussen just smiled arrogantly. „Oh, but I already have, watch!" He pointed at a large flat screen in front of them. „Remember, remember...", Magnussen started. Mycroft froze.

Clara took a glass champagne and toasted to Sherlock's return. John, Mary and Lestrade were sitting on the couch while Mrs. Hudson couldn't help but jump like a ball from the kitchen forth and back. She stood next to the detective and bit her tongue. She would not ask about him. It had been another three weeks since he'd left her apartement in a hurry after they'd almost kissed. He'd run again. And Clara had realised that Mycroft would probably never stop running. No matter how much if she told him to stay. He'd been there for her after her gran's funeral and she couldn't have helped herself but ask. If there was only the slightest chance for them she would try. But he was scared, too. Maybe she'd gone too far, she wasn't sure.

„So who was it?", she decided to distract herself.

„Pardon?", he looked down at her in wonder and she asked herself why she hadn't punched him like John had. „Whoever tried to burn John was clearly after you", she stated and shook herself. The thought of John being burnt scared her. Sherlock had called her in the middle of the night, saying she should take a map and guide him. Afterwards Clara had driven there by herself, not really knowing what was going on and had found him, John and Mary. She looked at the doctor, smiling, fine and really talkative today. „I don't think he was after me", Sherlock answered quietly. „It was a warning. He wants me to stay out of his buisness".

„Who is he?", she asked again.

„His name's Magnussen".

In that moment the door opened and Molly Hooper came in. Clara smiled, walked over and hugged her tightly. „Hello, Clara", she said. „Hello, everyone. This is Tom. Tom this is everyone".

It was just now that everybody in the room noticed Molly's escort. Clara blinked and John and her exchanged a look while Sherlock's jaw dropped. Tom looked exactly like Sherlock in his Belfast coat, scarf, black trousers and polished shoes. „Hi", Lestrade nodded but couldn't hide his obvious amusement either. „Have a seat, dear!"

Mrs. Hudson jumped off the couch and headed for the kitchen.

It was now that John had Mary that Sherlock took her to the cases with him. He'd called her John once and sometimes it seemed like he was talking to him in his mind. But most of the time he knew it was her, Clara. „A bomb in the tube?", she asked as she followed Sherlock down the stairs. „So how does that work, how do we stop it?"

„Be there in time, obviously", the detective answered. „I know your brain is way too busy thinking about Mycroft but you could at least try to keep up".

Clara caught up with him outside of the house and took him by the arm. „How dare you? I'm not-"

„Lie".

„Shut up! I'm not thinking about him!"

„You are right now and you do every evening, every morning and everytime you see me, subconsciously. It's beyond your control."

„I'm not the one talking to imaginary John in my head!"

„That's different, we were colleagues, working together."

„Yes, and Mycroft and I were-"

„He doesn't have friends. He's living in a world of goldfish, completely insular. If I seem like an idiot to him how is he supposed to stand ordinary people? ".

She stopped in her tracks, looking at him with wide eyes.

„World of goldfish?" she asked, her voice high-pitched against her will.

„His own words", Sherlock turned to her, his hands behind his back. Clara swallowed and nodded, trying not to look too hurt.

„Oh, come on", Sherlock's mouth twitched. „You didn't really believe you'd be any different to him?". She looked away, her eyes focussing on the road. She felt stupid, stupid and sentimental. How could she have been so impudent to believe herself important to him? He was Mycroft, not only a genius but an even greater mind than Sherlock.

„I agree", the man stated as he walked on and she followed slowly. „You must be special. He let you near him. And however, he does care about you. He's never cared for anybody before."

At that she looked up at him sharply. „That's not true! He cares for you, more than anyone else does!"

Sherlock stopped next to her, studying her face closely. „He turned you down", he stated and Clara found herself clenching her jaw. „He left you with nothing and yet you're still defending him."

She felt even more stupid by now. Why was she acting like this? Mycroft had treated her like nothing, he didn't deserve it any other way. But for some moronic reason she still couldn't stand Sherlock's insultings about his person. The younger Holmes raised an eyebrow and walked on. „Interesting".

She hated it when he read her. It always felt as if being ripped apart. The ugliest and most unpleasant secrets were exposed and used against you. But Clara knew that it could feel different, being deduced. More gentle, more intimate. She bit her lip in the moment she realised that she was thinking about Mycroft.

It would be the most selfless yet self-destructive thing he would ever do in his life. Mycroft felt the weight of a rock upon his chest when he rapped his knuckles against the door three times. It was half past eight in the evening and Rupert Pink opened the door after a few seconds. „Mister Holmes", he said. - _Surprised, insecure, confused._

„My apologies for the late visit, Mister Pink", he began without looking at the maths teacher who was certainly several inches shorter than him. „I have a request in terms of Cla-, Miss Oswald."

Pink furrowed his brows but listened nonetheless. When Mycroft had finished he turned to leave but Pink's voice stopped him. „Why don't you talk to her yourself if you're so concerned about her?"

The politician sighed before he faced the former soldier again. „There is a certain chance that she won't listen to me", he answered and could not help but scold himself for losing her trust. „She will listen to you".

„She told me that you let her down", Pink half-asked and Mycroft's heart sank. He had, indeed. There were no other words to describe what he had done to her, more than once in fact. The last thing he had intended to do. But the world never stopped. Not for him. Not for her. And now it was time to do whatever in his power to protect her. Even if he had to let her go.

„She deserves to be happy", he said. _And I would never forgive myself if something happened to her. _ Pink didn't say anything after that and just nodded before Mycroft left.

It was way past midnight, when he'd emptied the bottle of irish whiskey. He stared into his empty glass, his elbows on the table top, his hands folded beneath his chin. His ears were roaring, his blood so thin he was freezing. His brain drowning in alcohol was producing pictures of Clara Oswald and sent him through every scenario they'd been through during the past weeks, months, years. He remembered everything. The taste of her lips, the smell of her perfume, the warmth of her skin, the beat of her heart, the sound of her moaning. He could have had it, all of it. He could have had her. If he'd only been a braver man, a better man. But he didn't deserve her, he never had. He had released her so she would be safe, could have a future with a husband, children, a family. Sometimes he hated having an eidetic memory. Mycroft would never be able to forget. The kisses, the talks, the laughs and the dreams and fantasies that had come along with them. Time would take its path, of course. He would push it somewhere into the backround of his mind, keeping the memories silent, telling the fantasies to be quiet. But they would always be there and they would always win the fight. His chest felt narrow, he tried to breath but was to calm his racing pulse, he stood grabbing the back of the chair so hard his knuckles turned white.

Mycroft closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, wondering if it was possible for a heart to break.


	21. The wedding night

The wedding night

„So why did you call me here with three messages saying Emergency Help Now?!"

Clara Oswald was still wearing her helmet, she'd left her bike outside carelessly and stood in the living room of 221B. „I have to write a speech!", Sherlock was walking up and down, several pieces of paper covering the floor. „John made me best man and I have no idea how to do it!"

She wanted to scream. The detective had seriously pulled her out of her English lesson because of a speech?! Last week Mary had asked her to help her with the layout and design of the wedding invitations only for her future husband to complain about the fact that his second name was on it. But just as she'd expected Mary was the boss and the invitations stayed just the way they were. And now it was only one week to go and Sherlock would have to write a best-man-speech. Clara set down her helmet and put it on the table. „Seriously?", she asked as Sherlock sat down on the floor, his legs crossed. „You're an English Major, aren't you supposed to know how to write a speech?".

She wanted to say that he just could have asked nicely for her help but she knew better. Sherlock seemed truly lost and overstrained with his task. So she got out of her leather jacket and crouched down next to him and looked through the pages. „Let's see it, then." Her eyes scanned Sherlock's messy handwriting. „They're all rubbish!", her best friend exclaimed and ruffled his hair in frustration. „Maybe in this order but...", she reached out for some other pages and found a book underneath them saying: „How to write the perfect speech". She held it up and looked at him. „Really?", she raised an eyebrow and Sherlock just shrugged his shoulders helplessly. „Okay, this wasn't very helpful, then."

About two and a half hours later, they'd produced a speech Clara was satisfied with and Sherlock had agreed after a few changes. When she made them a cup of tea and joined him back down on the floor she said: „You're not going to use any of this, right?" Sherlock sipped his tea and read the speech again. „Nope", he said and laid down on his back. Clara did the same and stared at the ceiling. „Good. You're welcome".

It was the great day and Clara discovered that she had nothing to wear and no escort. Danny was on a school trip and there was nobody else she could've asked. Well, she would be going alone, then. Nothing was wrong with that. If she was going at all! She sank down on her bed and looked through the clothes around her. She'd concidered her purple suit but what was fine for a date would clearly not be enough for a wedding! Same went for all her dresses and she had completely forgotten about shopping in the past weeks. Her phone already in hand she wanted to call Sherlock to excuse her for the ceremony when her eyes fell onto her closet again. Dropping the phone, she walked over and took it. It was the red dress she'd received from Mycroft for the charity event. It was stunning, almost to beautiful for today. Clara had never thought she would wear it again, she'd nearly buried it in the deepest darkest corner for she wanted to forget about the dress, the evening she'd been wearing it and especially about Mycroft Holmes whom she hadn't seen for almost three months now. Checking her watch, she found that she had about an hour left. She knew that he was not invited, so he would most likely not show up today. Nobody was to find out where she'd gotten the dress and she wouldn't have to feel...weird.

Smiling at herself she let her fingers ran through the fabric.

She'd made it to cut the fringe herself, so the dress ended just above her knees now. It was still beautiful but not too impressive and it didn't steal the show of the bride's dress. Clara had missed the ceremony in the church and appeared a little out of breath. Her hair was done in a half-up-half-down-do and she'd kept her make-up restrained. She gave her congrats to Mary and John, hugged them both and they made compliments about her dress, while Sherlock was deducing it without a word. Refusing to look at him, Clara stepped inside with a smile.

He'd finished the last files and decided to do work-out today. It was time to change his lifestyle if he didn't want to die at the age of 65. There would be no more smoking and no more alcohol. That morning after he'd devoured one bottle of whiskey on his own had been a lesson with a terrible headache. He had never been one to lament and he would not start it now. It was time to move on in the truest sense of the word. Mycroft didn't go out much and why would he run through the garden, ruining the perfectly trimmed grass when he had a treadmill? Running wasn't a bad thing when one was used to it, he found. It was distracting for a while and would hopefully have its desired effect of making him lose weight. He changed the feed and ran faster. He needed to feel his lungs burn.

It was the 21th of March, John Watson's wedding. Most likely, Clara Oswald would be there. Most likely in the company of Mister Pink. They would give their whishes to bride and groom, drink champagne, and laugh. They would chat and cheer. They would dance. He would take her into his arms, her temple would rest against his jaw, so close he could feel her sweet breath against his neck and she would breathe in his scent, feeling his warmth. They would gently sway to the rythm, their bodies close, getting closer with every movement until the remaining space between them was burning hot. She would look up at him through her eyelashes and smile and he would have no other chance than smiling back at her. Shaking his head, Mycroft ran harder. He had to forget. It had been the right thing to do. His future was his work, his life for queen and country. It had been logical, he was not sentimental. The politician closed his eyes and when he opened them again, his view had changed into black and white. Clara Oswald was sitting in the armchair in front of him, being the only item in colour. She was looking exactly the way she had been looking that night of the charity event. Of course it had to be this dress. There was no other way she could've possibly memorised herself in his mind palace.

He was running, running and running even though his lungs screamed at him. He was sweating and barely properly breathing. „Mycroft", mind-Clara rose to her feet and stepped closer, holding out her hand. „Go away", he panted and tried to focus on something else. Everything was still turned grey. Laughing, she spun around and looked back at him over her shoulder. „Mycroft", she said again and he cursed his brain. „Come on, dance with me". She turned and held out both of her arms. „Go. Away!", he almost spat and shut his eyes tightly. And when he opened them again she was gone and his view normal. Then he heard his phone rang.

The speech almost turned out to be a complete disaster but somehow Sherlock saved it in the end. Afterwards there had been an almost murder of course but John, Sherlock and her had saved the man who turned out to be one of John's closest soldier friends. In the end it had been alright and a great party was coming along. Clara danced with Sherlock a few times and then with Lestrade and John. It was the most fun she'd had in the past weeks and she drank a lot more than she possibly should have.

It was half past one in the morning when Clara found herself in the garden in the cold night. She needed some air and slowly she was getting tired. Leaning her back against the door frame, she closed her eyes and shivered slightly. Her dazed mind wandered off and somehow found itself at Mycroft again. Why hadn't he come? She'd heard Sherlock phoning him earlier, not wanting to eavesdrop. She would have loved to dance with him, she realised. Having no doubt that he definitely knew how to dance she imagined them swaying on the dancefloor. They would be close. Close enough for her to feel his breath and practically hear his heartbeat. She would touch her hand to his while we'd bring her closer to his chest, holding her by her waist. Hold her so tenderly. It would feel natural and right. They would move. She would close her eyes and lose herself in the music with his smell surrounding her. Time and space would stop in this very moment. She sighed when inside they played one of her favorite songs.

_Hey now, hey now, don't dream it's over  
Hey now, hey now, when the world comes in  
They come, they come to build a wall between us  
We know they won't win _

It would be all she'd notice. The beautiful notes and his steady breath. Breathing the same air as she would. But not a word would be spoken. There would be no need for one syllable to be uttered between them. She would want him closer. Her hand would slide beneath his jacket, feeling the soft material of his shirt. His breathing would speed up in response, only the slightest bit, nobody but her would notice. They would dance. It would be somehow in disguise yet it would be obvious to everyone around them. They would see. And she would not care.

_Now I'm walking again to the beat of a drum  
And I'm counting the steps to the door of your heart  
Only the shadows ahead barely clearing the roof  
Get to know the feeling of liberation and relief _

They would dance on and on while everything around them would stop. One moment, frozen in time, closer than ever and yet too far away. He would not risk to give himself away in public. His eyes would stay open but wouldn't see anything while hers would be closed. He would guide her. And she would follow wherever he'd lead her. She would feel that he was beginning to let his armour down with her. Only with her. She'd let go of her fear and rest her head against his chest and he'd let her. It would be hypnotising. Hearing his heartbeat and feeling his chest raise and fall under his breath. The heat radiating from his body would burn her skin, making her shiver and her breath falter. It would be over too soon and she would not be willing to let go.

_They come, they come to build a wall between us  
We know they won't win  
Don't let them win  
Hey now, hey now _

The song ended and she opened her eyes again. She took a deep breath and the cold air brought back her senses. A glance on her watch told her that it was way too late and she would have to leave now. Clara shook her head and straightened her back before she stepped back inside to fetch her jacket.

Note: The song is „Don't dream it's over" by Crowded House


	22. The terror night - Part I

The terror night - Part I

It had been a normal morning. She had arrived punctually at school, together with Danny. They'd had a small chat about the week-end and had met Adrian in the corridor, telling them how nervous he was about this week's parent's evening. They all were and none of them was actually ready to face their students parents. It was always the same, critics were turned down and offers were made. Clara would try her best to be friendly and smile, Danny would talk about misunderstandings and Adrian would most likely give them all the same advice: more practicing.

When their boss announced a new caretaker, Clara didn't look up immediately. But she did when she heard his voice. „Hello, I'm the new caretaker. John Smith".

With eyes gone wide she looked at the Doctor and couldn't find her breath for a moment. She hadn't thought to see him ever again. And here he was, dressed in a brown coat and carrying a broom, introducing himself as John Smith, the most obvious alias of all time.

She'd just closed the door behind her two minutes later after all colleagues had left when the Doctor turned towards her. „So, you recognized me, then?", he asked.

„You're wearing a different coat!", she exclaimed, a part of her still not believing that he was standing in front of her after almost three years. „And you saw straight through that? Remarkable. New face and all!" He made a gesture towards his face and looked at her expectantly. It was strange, so strange to see him with his new face. He looked old, yet she knew it was the Doctor, her Doctor. „What are you doing here?" She realised she'd asked that question quite a lot in the past weeks. „I'm undercover. Deep cover.", he explained and leant on the broom he had brought. „Deep cover? In my school? Why?" A scenario of horrible pictures started running through her mind. „Oh my God, is it aliens? Is, is that why you're here? Are there aliens?", she asked. He just looked down at her, his face blank. She knew that expression far too well even if from another man. „You better get going, wash or something", he said, not willing to dedicate her. „Are there aliens in this school?", she asked again, now more than a little worried. But the Doctor walked past her, ignoring her question. „Listen, it's lovely talk with you after all this time but I've got to get on. I'm the caretaker now. Look, I've got a brush", he raised the broom demonstratively. What the hell was going on? Clara needed to know! There were kids around, for God's sake! „Doctor", she steeped closer and he held out the broom in front of her as if to keep her away from him. When had that started? Her other Doctor had never done something so...deprecative. „Is there an alien in this school?", she pressed nonetheless. „Yes, me!", he answered and put a hand against his chest. „Now go. The walls need sponging and there's a sinister puddle." She swallowed and shook her head. He was already part of the role he was playing here and much to her annoyance she would not be able to talk him out of this. But that didn't mean she would not try. „You can't do this. You cannot pass yourself off as a real person among actual people!", she exclaimed. He looked at her unsagaciously. „I lived among otters once for a month. Well, I sulked. River and I, we had this big fight-".

„Human being are not otters!", she interrupted him, appalled at his carelessness. „Exactly. It'll be even easier." Now he smiled down at her. For that one second he looked like her Doctor again. Friendly, childish and sometimes charming. The memory made her stomach drop, so she carded her hands through her hair, trying to calm down and went on:"Okay. I've got one question. And you will answer this question". Clara smacked the broom in front of her away and looked at him very seriously. „Are the kids safe?". His features turned dark. „No. Nobody is safe", he answered coldly. „But soon the answer will be: Yes, everybody is safe, if you let me get on", he finished and walked to the door. „Now", he said. „Pretend you don't know me, may not be too hard for you with new face and all. Stay out of my way, just like you have for the past years. The less you know, the better". - Okay, so he was still angry at her for leaving him. Clara knew it had not been alright to do so but she had a life now, a busy one with a detective, terrorists, criminals and now her old life came back to her. Why was the Doctor here then? Maybe a coincidence. „I hate you", she hissed. He didn't turn around once more when he answered:"That's fine. It's a perfectly normal reaction". With that he left and the young woman threw her head back in annoyance. How, how the hell was she supposed to get out of this?

Mycroft sipped at his tea when Anthea entered the office without knocking. He was about to complain but his eyes fell on a file she had brought. „Another?", he asked. „Unknown technology, most likely alien", his PA explained. „I did not inform UNIT, yet but I can if that will be necessarry?". Her boss scrolled through the documents. A dead body, or more likely body part for the rest seemed burned away. Just like three weeks ago in an empty house in East London. „Not today", he decided and closed the file. „Anything else?", he looked up. Anthea seemed uncomfartable. „Well, yes. There is a new imployee at Coal Hill". Mycroft frowned slightly. Why would that be of any interest to him except..._No! Stop it! _Anthea delivered some other photographs, showing a man with grey hair. „The new caretaker, name: John Smith". They exchanged a knowing look. That was almost too easy. „I looked him up, nothing". Mycroft kept his eyes on the picture of the strange man. That one might have been something but definitely not a caretaker. He put it down and drank his tea. „Get the car", he said.

Clara sat at her desk and let her students read _Pride and Prejudice_ out loud. Even though most of the kids seemed extremely bored by it, Clara loved the book. She often liked to identify herself with Elizabeth. A strong, self-assured woman, more than one step ahead of the decade she was living in. Kelvin made it hard for himself but it would be worth a C -, maybe. Suddenly there was a knock on the door and everybody looked up. The door opened and revealed: Mycroft Holmes! Clara's eyes went wide and she stared at him in surprise. He was here. What was he doing here? „Excuse me, may I speak to you for a minute?", he asked all politely. Lost for words, she kept staring, the kids forgotten. „Wrong", he said out of the blue and she blinked. „Sorry, what?".

„On the board. It's wrong. Jane Austen wrote Pride and Prejudice in 1796."

Clara looked back at the board. She had written 1797. She'd read... „Hehe, no." She turned towards the class. „This is Mycroft Holmes, Government official, not an English major." Then, she turned back to him. "How would you know?"

„I have an eidetic memory, Miss Oswald. I never forget anything."

„Well, in this case you're wrong, she wrote it in 1797."

„No, she didn't."

„How would you know, have you written her biography? Did you travel back in time to have tea with her personally?". The words were out of her mouth just when she realised that she was being illogical. Mycroft raised an eyebrow at her.

The children giggled. Clearing her throat, she stood up. „Just a minute", she said. „And Kelvin, you carry on while I'm outside."

With that, she closed the door behind her and leant against it. „You don't do this", she stated and gave him a resentful look even though her heart was racing at the very sight of him. „You never leave the office just like that, there must be a reason. What are you doing in my school?". - Two impossible men in her school on one day! It was definitely getting worse!

„Jane Austen did write Pride and Prejudice back im 1797, look it up if you like", he said arrogantly and went on: „There is a new imployee at your school, introduced himself as John Smith this morning..."

She closed her eyes. „Don't tell me you've got cameras inside this very building".

„You should know by now that I do have cameras everywhere in London. This school is no exception".

„So, you do watch children run to their classes, chewing gum and cheating around?".

„For example". He joined in and gave her a provocative look. „I have also seen that you and Mister Pink are sticking quite close together, aren't you?".

She raised her chin at him. „Really?".

Mycroft jaw looked clenched and she didn't know why she liked it. If he was jealous...Mycroft Holmes being jealous? Even though Sherlock had mentioned it before it seemed unlike him. The politician had noticed her look and relaxed immediately, crooked his head to one side and narrowed his eyes at her with a thin yet arrogant smile. Oh, she hated it when he did that! And he was aware of that.

„Oh, for God's sake, what's wrong with the new caretaker?", she exclaimed helplessly, wanting nothing more than him to be gone. It was so stupid! Each time they were apart she missed him so much that she had to keep herself busy to not think about him. And everytime he stood before her her heart beated to loud that she feared he might hear it. This always lasted and got worse when they had an argument which happpened pretty much all the time. And now the Doctor was here as well. She would not tell him ever, no way!

Mycroft studied her face while his own features gave away curiosity, yet distrust. When had he stopped trusting her, she wondered. „Do you know him?", he asked and she swallowed. „I see", he went on. „A friend of yours, it seems."

She remained silent and looked away, his gaze burned her. There was a fire in his eyes when he wanted to discover the truth. A fire strong enough to burn her. „You were close once but not anymore and you clearly regret it. It was you who ended it, why?".

„Enough!", she hissed. „You've demonstrated your observing skills, why are you here?"

„He does not exist, your caretaker. I found nothing, no personal background, no history, nothing".

„I hardly see how your background check fails are my problem", she stated and made an attempt to walk back inside but Mycroft held her back with his hand on her arm. She felt something close to an electric shock and winced. He withdrew his hand immediately and looked away. _Is this what we're at_, she thought. _Can't even touch each other anymore. _

„Whoever he is, he might be dangerous", he stated not looking at her, his hand now buried deep inside his pocket, his body turned sidely away from her. „He is not", she cut in. At that he turned his head towards her, looking her up and down. „Trust me, Mycroft, he is not dangerous." But the truth was that she wasn't so sure. The Doctor was no danger himself but danger always came along when he was around. „Who is he to you?", Mycroft turned to her again. „You trust him and you've known him for a long time. Who is he?".

Clara fought herself. There was a huge part of her that wanted to tell him the truth. She didn't know why she wouldn't. Mycroft was the British Government. He knew about the Doctor anyway, he had spoken to Kate Stewart, he was aware of aliens and spaceships. But not personally. And what would the Doctor say? If they'd meet God knew what could happen! And for the sakes of the kids, her colleagues, for all their sakes, she had to keep them away from each other. „Please, excuse me now", she said and opened the door to her class. „I have a class to teach. You just go back to your desk and run the country. Everything's fine and the caretaker is just doing his job. Perfectly... ordinary...caretaker...things". Without giving him a chance to answer, she disappeared inside and closed the door. The bell rang and she grabbed her bag to leave. Opening the door again, she found Mycroft was gone. She looked down the corridor and saw him walking to the inner courtyard.

_Oh my stars!_

„What about our homework?", Kelvin's voice reached her ears and she turned to him. „No one asks for homework. Amateur!". With that she jogged after the politician.

Mycroft spotted „the caretaker" in the courtyard, busy working at the electrical connection. He didn't look like a caretaker, he found. Not one bit, actually. Whoever he was, Clara was protecting him. That fact bothered him to no end and he could not say why. She had almost jumped at his touch, clearly displeased by it. She was right after all. He should not touch her again. It would only...He shook his head briefly and walked towards the old man who was crouched down in front of the electricity box. „It seems there is nothing to be fixed", he stated after a quick look and stood next to the man, leaning on his umbrella. The stranger looked up briefly and went back to non-work. „Who are you?", he asked and Mycroft recognized a scottish accent. „You don't work here, you seem way too clever". Oh, he was observing. Not that bad and definitely no ordinary man. _\- Clever. Very clever. Genius even. Advanced technologies, history and biology, science. Something different._

„You're correct. I am-"

„A king. No, that's what you think of yourself, sorry."

„I beg your pardon, Sir?"

„Oh, no need for begging, thank you. I meant to say politician, very high member as it seems."

„I'm sorry", Mycroft frowned. The man was too well informed. „Have we met?"

„No!"

Both men looked up to find Clara standing next to them, looking more than a bit stressed. „No, you haven't, so if I may? The caretaker Mister Smith, Mycroft Holmes-", she hesitated. Mycroft looked at her curiously. How was she going to introduce him this time? He would not go with Sherlock's brother again, which would have been at that point complete nonesense for the caretaker didn't know Sherlock. Said one raised to his feet and Mycroft was slightly displeased by the fact that he and this old man were about the same height. Clara seemed to make up her mind and didn't say anything, her eyes cast down. „Oh, the two of you are friends, then?", the misterious caretaker asked and Clara and Mycroft looked at each other. „Yes", Clara said quickly but her look at Mycroft showed him that she was insecure about it. „Well, we've known each other for a while", she added and Mycroft let his head drop so his face was out of her sight. He only ever did this gesture with Sherlock. When he knew that he was being obvious. And this time he was. Biting his tongue, he swallowed down another comment. The caretaker looked back and forth between them, obviously trying to figure them out. „For a while...", he began but didn't say anything more. Mycroft caught Clara's gaze at the strange man and pondered. _\- Insecurity about his behaviour, trust nonetheless, great trust deep down, kindness and regret. _

But above all else there was one thing more than present in her eyes: _affection_. Affection for this man. Mycroft felt a strange haul inside his chest and could not stop himself from frowning at her. Clara looked back at him after a 4.3 seconds glance at the caretaker and mirrored his expression in wonder, her lips pulled into an uneasy smile.

She seemed slightly overstrained with the situation. There was a chance about 89 percent that she had wanted to prevent the two men from meeting. That he had come here himself was ridiculous, he realised in that moment. He hardly ever left his office and what had happened to his plan to stay away from Clara? Why was he acting so out of line? Mycroft took the chance of her silence which was pretty much enough proof that she had no intention of naming any other important details and nodded. „Very well, then", he said, his expression demonstratively bored. „Goodbye Mister Smith, Miss Oswald". There. Back to formalities, as it was supposed to be. Not sentimental.

He left the inner courtyard and walked through the following corridors until he found himself at the red wooden door to the caretaker's stock. The students were all rushing to their classes, none of the cameras could reach this very spot for the plants around and after a mere 2.1 seconds Mycroft disappeared inside, completely unseen.

The Doctor closed the metal box and turned to walk back inside. Clara had seen him leaving something in there. „What was that?", she asked. „Nothing". The Doctor walked on, not looking at her. „So, was that him then?", he asked instead.

„Was he who?", she looked up at him.

„The one that made an appearance in your life." She swallowed.

„How did you know?".

„You're different. And I thought I was the one who had changed. You're not the same anymore, impossible girl."

„Doctor-".

In this moment, Danny approached them. „Clara, there's someone here for-"

„A study in alien enigmas", came the reply from Sherlock who was standing right behind Danny. Clara's eyes widened. Behind him at the door, John appeared and joined them as well. He greeted Danny with a flap on the shoulder. „I'm sorry, Clara", he turned to her. „But Sherlock is under the impression that there's some alien here in your school". She smiled while her eyes went wide and she looked for the Doctor who had just vanished inside the building. „Alien?". Clara realised that her voice was shaking and her heart hammered inside her chest. _Oh my stars!_


	23. The terror night - Part II

The terror night – Part II

„Wait! Where are you going?"

„Investigating"

„But this is a school, not a crime scene!"

Clara found herself almost jogging to keep up with Sherlock who made his way through the corridors. „There is something astonishing going on here and I will find it", the detective said decidely while John shook his head and turned to Clara. „He stalked Mycroft and wants to find out why he came to your school, that's all".

„Hang on, you're stalking your brother?", she asked Sherlock.

„He started it, so it's only fair". With two huge steps she stood in front of him, hands on her hips. „Since when are you interested in your brother's activities?"

„Since he does have them. He hardly ever leaves the house or the Diogenes Club, so there must be something here that caught his attention". He gave her a strange look but said nothing. Clara swallowed. „Remarkable", Sherlock murmered and her patience snapped. „Right", she said and took them both by the arms to turn them around. „Listen, Mycroft came here to tell me he wants his umbrella back, okay? He's gone now and there's nothing strange here-"

„Lie. If he wanted his umbrella back he'd have sent-"

„My phone doesn't work. However, none of your buisness. John, please take him home, now! If you'll excuse me, I have a class to teach."

Sherlock was complaining but didn't resist when John pulled him towards the door by the arm. Could he really be this bored? Clara knew that it was hard for him since John had left 221B but the fact that he was stalking Mycroft now worried her. She looked around and found Danny next to her. „Care to tell me what is going on?", he asked curiously. _Oh, for god's sake!_

The bell saved her and she nodded at him once, saying she would explain it later before she headed to her class room.

Two hours later she found herself on the schoolyard surrounded by the kids. „Hey", she said. „I said you could play chess, I did not say you could play football on the chessboard. Jack, Morgan, come on, help me out, clear it up." At that she heard a whistle not far from her...was that? Looking up she found the Doctor standing around the corner, whisteling the first lines of „The Wall" by Pink Floyd. She let out a sigh. As far as she could see, he was doing his best for not being discovered. Deep cover, he'd named it. He disappeared around the corner and she decided that she had to check up on him, soon.

After the break she had free period and went directly to the caretaker's storeroom. He'd placed a label at the door inside saying: GO AWAY HUMANS! Well, he'd obviously been alone for some time. The Doctor was clearing the paper towels as it seemed when she entered. „Now, I imagine you have many questions. Fire away. I won't answer any of them.", he stated and finally turned to face her. Anger rose inside her chest and she stood before him. „Listen, whatever your former companions were like I will not let you get away with this, you endanger this school!", she snapped and crossed her arms stubbornly. „Me?", he looked completely surprised.

„You wouldn't be here if there wasn't an alien threat nearby. Your strategy for dealing with it involves endangering this school."

„You don't know that", he turned away from her again.

„I don't know anything because you haven't told me anything, which means I wouldn't approve, which means you are endangering this school-". She stopped when he activated his sonic screwdriver and revealed a green glowing globe in front of them. It displayed a four legged machine that was looking like a wheelchair with an alien in it. Clara furrowed her brows. „What the hell is it?", she asked and couldn't hide her slight excitement. „ A Skovox Blitzer", the Doctor answered. „One of the deadliest killing machines ever created. Probably homed in here because of artron emissions. You've had enough of them in this area over the years. There's enough explosive in its armoury to take out the whole planet", he explained. At that she looked up at him. „Then leave it alone", she said. The Doctor shut the image down. „Sooner or later it will creep from its hidey-hole and some military idiot will try to attack it. The world is full of kings who believe theirselves to be politicians, or maybe the other way around.", he finished and disappeared inside the TARDIS. Staying outside, she called after him: „No chance you'll tell me about the plan?".

„Nope", he reappeared again and closed the door of the spaceship behind him. „Got work to do". With that he walked outside and left her alone in the storeroom. Shaking her head, she cursed him and whished him nothign but far far away from her school. An alien that could destroy the whole planet, great news! „Skovox Blitzer, was it?". Startled she turned around only to find Mycroft standing in front of face was unreadable, yet his eyes appeared cold. „Now", he said and looked briefly to the TARDIS. „Is there something you want to tell me?".

He'd been hiding behind the blue police box he'd discovered in the storeroom when he'd heard him coming in. From some curious noices inside of it Mycroft could tell that it was not a police box at all. It must have been something much bigger. Also he'd listened to the conversation of Clara and the caretaker and now he was facing her, demanding answers but he was pretty sure, he already knew the truth. She looked up at him, completely in shock, her eyes wide and somehow she'd forgotten to breathe for a moment. He hadn't had indeed no idea that she was that scared of him. Well, at least she wasn't any different then. „I-"

„You're about to tell a lie", he stated.

„Wha-, No! I wasn't-"

„You're still planning to lie".

Clara hid her face behind her hands in frustration and ended up carding her fingers through her hair, clearly in distress. „Okay", she breathed, brought her hands to her hips and took several deep breaths. „Okay", she repeated. „Please, don't tell me you're suggesting to call the Army", she started and Mycroft snorted. Of course, he would not. Soldiers only knew one way to get rid of a problem. That much was useful in a war but not in an alien invasion. He had in fact no idea how to handle an alien invasion, but there was no logical reason for him to tell her that. He was relieved that she had not asked the most obvious and most stupid question normal people would have asked him, always asked in those kind of situations: How long have you been standing there?

„Is it him, then?", he asked instead. „The Doctor". He had not made it sound like a question because the caretakers identity was obvious by now. That was because he could not find anything about this man. He literally did not exist. „Yes", Clara seemed to relax a bit. „Yes, it's him". Without looking at him, she walked towards the police box and pushed both doors open wide. „And that's the TARDIS, his spaceship. But you, well, you already know that much from Kate". She leant against the door frame as Mycroft stepped closer and looked inside. A thousand thoughts were crossing his mind. He had read about it in the files of UNIT, he'd seen pictures but this was different. She noticed his hesitation and he felt her hand on his arm. Against his better judgement he let her, he was too distracted by the alien technology in front of him. „Go on", she said gently and led him inside. He stopped in the middle of the huge room and looked around. - _Definitely smaller on the outside, thousands of buttons and switches, systems and functions which were not supposed to exist, a huge console, several monitors, bookshelfs (well, that was known)..._

His mind was spinning, trying to work it out which was new for him. His brain normally deduced everything within the blink of an eye. Mycroft didn't realise he was wavering until he felt Clara next to him, guiding his hand to the iron balustrade. She chuckled. „I know it can be a bit overwhelming, you should see her in action, all moody she can be. But most of the time she likes me". Still working out the time machine, he watched her. Her eyes were brightening up – _Excitement, joy, delight, lots of memories _

He found that he couldn't speak. Time travel was not possible for all he knew and space-time-travelling should be even more impossible. But he'd spotted a helmet on top of one of the bookshelfs already that was much proven dropped out of its time, as far as he could tell. And he knew when people were lying. Clara Oswald had not been lying to him, was not at this very moment. And Kate Stewart had neither. The politician blinked and noticed that the woman next to him was still talking. It was then, when he finally found his language again. „This Skovox Blitzer", he said. „The Doctor said he was going to get rid off it". She nodded. „Yes".

„How do you know?" He knew this question would be answered by her unconsidered trust towards this...alien but he needed to hear it from her. „It's what he does", she smiled. „He's the Doctor, he saves planets, galaxies even and most of all people."

Mycroft furrowed his brows at her, he wasn't satisfied yet. „He refuses to tell you anything about the way he is planning to solve the problem", he stated, trying to irritate her.

„His plans are always spectacular, and best of all they work!", she answered, her faith unshaken. „I trust him", she finally said. „He's never let me down". Suddenly her face changed and was overtaken by regret. Mycroft knew what she was thinking. The Doctor may have never let her down but in the end it had been her who had left him. She had let him down.

„Are you going back?", he asked out of nowhere and scolded himself in the same moment. But he couldn't help it. „To this?", he looked around and pressed without looking her in the eye: „To him?". Clara opened her mouth but didn't say anything. - _Wondering why he'd asked her this, insecurity about this subject, confused_

There was a certain chance of 79.5 percent that she would go back to travel with the Doctor. There was nothing holding her here and he could see that she missed it. She missed the exciting feeling that came to her when she discovered foreign worlds and stars. It broadened her mind and she missed the Doctor. And she wouldn't miss him, not like that. Never like that. In the end it would be for the best, he thought. She would be far far away from him and so from Magnussen. Clara would be away and they would disconnect and never be close again. Like it was supposed to be. He felt her moving closer to him. Looking into her beautiful eyes he knew he was not allowed to give her any reason to stay. She needed to be protected. Carefully, she placed her hand over his on the balustrade. He watched her. „Mycroft I-"

The doors swang and closed with a loud noise. „What?", she ran towards the doors and rattle at them. „Oh, no! Come on!"

„Got you!", the Doctor's face appeared on the monitor at the console. It was a video. „Clara, Clara", he said. „I knew you'd sneek around but I told you I don't need you this time."

The young woman turned and stalked towards the screen, clearly in anger. „No, no, you're not doing this, you idiot!", she grapped the screen with both hands while Mycroft just listened to the alien's words. „Wish you a nice evening with the old girl while I'll be sending the Skovox Blitzer back to where it belongs. See ya!" The screen went blue and Clara looked briefly at Mycroft before she headed for the door again. „Come on", she exclaimed and he knew she was talking to the ship. „Let us out!". She rattled at the doors but nothing happened.

„Okay", she turned to face him. „Alright, that's fine", she tried to calm herself. „There is a way out of here, definitely." Mycroft sighed. What a wonderful day! He looked around the huge spaceship again. „You're not good at telling lies, you know", he murmered.


	24. The terror night - Part III

The terror night – Part III

at Wink: You're my most loyal reader/commentator, you know that? ;-) thank you!

She tucked at her blouse nervously and avoided his gaze. Mycroft stood in the middle of the cosole room, thinking, his eyes on her. Clara sat across from him on the stairs that led up to the Doctor's small liberary (the big one was next to her bedroom in the TARDIS). She remembered the last time she'd been trapped inside the TARDIS after the eleventh Doctor and her had been crashed. She'd been alone and scared and hunted. Shaking off the unpleasant memory she stood and walked up the stairs to the bookshelfs. Mycroft didn't seem in the mood for conversation and neither was she. Although she was still angry with him, the situation made her sad. How had they gotten here? Why couldn't they just get along like they had before? _Before._ She shivered slightly and pushed the night he'd left out of her mind and grapped a book, trying to distract herself. It was just when she'd read the first lines that it came to her which book she was holding. „Pride and Prejudice" by Jane Austen. Remembering their argument from earlier she turned back to him, leaning herself against the balustrade. „I looked it up", she said and he blinked at her as if she'd woken him up from a dream. She held up the book. „Jane Austen wrote Pride and Prejudice from 1796 to 1797". He furrowed his brows but said nothing. „Well, I guess that means we were both right", she smiled. Mycroft nodded and turned away. Clara felt her stomach drop. She wasn't angry anymore, she was sad and right now she almost felt helpless in the face of his behaviour. The book still in hand, she walked down the stairs and stood next to him. „Okay, are you gonna say something or just keep ignoring me?". He kept a straight face and seemed completely focused on his umbrella which he kept turning in his hand. She felt desperation rise up in her chest. He seemed so far away from her yet they were standing next to each other. How could she reach him? How was she going to get to him? „Say something", she requested.

He sighed and took his time before he finally answered: „I have tried my phone but it seems that no signal can reach us here. And since there is no exit except for the front doors I am afraid we will have to wait for your alien friend to free us." He had not looked at her once. „My current situation could be a better one", he added dryly. Clara could not stand it. He was treating her like a stranger, worse, a stupid stranger and she was not going to take this from him any longer. „Could we now stop this babbeling and talk like English people, please?", she exclaimed a bit louder than she'd intended. At that he looked at her, she'd finally gotten his attention.

„I have no idea what you are trying to imply", he stated coldly, his face blank.

„We're in a mess, Mycroft!", she almost yelled. „You and I, we're in a mess!".

He raised an eyebrow arrogantly and she could practically feel his judgement upon her. „I hardly see how your private difficulties are any of my concern".

„Because you started it!" She stamped her foot.

„If I recall correctly it was you who knocked at my door that night".

„If I recall correctly it was you who kissed me not the other way around!". He made the attempt to say something but closed his mouth again. He knew she was right.

„That was a mistake", he shot back. „Which I'm still sorry for and-"

„You said you weren't sorry", she cut in. Mycroft looked away. He had not forgotten that much was obvious but maybe he'd hoped that she had. How could he even think that? „You said you wouldn't apologize because you were not sorry for kissing me and you said you wouldn't lie to me", she pressed. He stepped around the console, away from Clara. „I know what I said", came his murmur. „So, why did you do it, then?", she crossed her arms, following him. She wanted to see his face. Mycroft didn't move away this time, just burrowed his right hand in his pocket and looked up to the ceiling, maybe trying to deduce the gallifreyan signs on it. Seeing that he had no intention to answer her question she asked him again: „Mycroft, why did you-"

„When you're done indulging your control compulsion would you kindly leave me alone?", his voice was cold and perfectly steady. With that he walked past her, not giving her a second glance and sat down on the stairs, his umbrella in front of him and his expression bored. So stubborn! „Fine, you know what? I don't care!". She wanted to scream. She wanted to punch him and ask him what in God's name she had done wrong. But then it dawned on her that he wouldn't answer her anyway. Maybe it was better that way. Suddenly she realised she held the book still in her hand and sat down on the opposite stairs. Opening the book, she knew it was going to be a very long evening.

It was the best thing he could do right now. Stay away from her as much as possible even when they were locked in a spaceship together. Who had ever heard of something like that? He would be quiet for the next hours, they would sit here in heavy silence, both hoping that it would be over soon. It had not been long since he had almost craved being alone with her. He still did but his mind was forbidding it. The closer she would get to him, the more she would appear on Magnussen's radar. It was the easiest way to threaten somebody, threatening the one's close to one. That's why he'd always known it would be better to stand clear off emotions. Sooner or later they would be used against him and for a man in his position that would be unacceptable. And it had worked out. For 42, almost 43 years now it had worked out for him. No feelings, no relationships, some nights of passion with both men and women until he was sure he knew everything about it but nothing more. Never more. His only weakness was his little brother. When it came to Sherlock his protective instinct kicked in, no matter what the consequences would be. For him, Mycroft felt the closest thing to affection even when they were at each other's throats and there were times when he'd wanted to kill this little, stupid idiot of a brother. That was all he could take. Which was why he hated Christmas and birthdays. There was nothing he wouldn't do to save Sherlock but he always knew that he could. It had been easy not to feel anything, he was glad when he was on his own and could do his thinking properly. However it was different with Clara Oswald. For the first time ever Mycroft had discovered the meaning of missing somebody. Every once in a while he found himself sitting in his liberary, reading the same paragraph over and over again, failing to concentrate and wishing for her to be with him. He'd burnt all of his books immediately if he could have one more night of conversation with her. No, not even a conversation. Just being in the same room would be enough, just once more. That warm feeling of security that spread inside his stomach when they were sitting in silence. For the first time Mycroft had felt home in his way too large town house. And he knew it had been because of her. Somehow, most certainly without knowing she had offered him the possibility of not having to be alone anymore without feeling guilty or ashamed about it. Yes, he had enjoyed it. He'd enjoyed their evenings together, their not-date-dinners and their conversations. Maybe he was getting old, he wondered. Maybe it was a sudden fear of being left on the shelf after so many years of being on his own. Which was simply stupid. In the end everyone ended up alone, everybody died on his own. All lifes ended. All hearts were broken, even his had been recently. By nobody else but himself, naturally. Sometimes one had to break oneself to carry on, and Mycroft had done so more than once actually. But why was it so hard with her?

It was his fault, of course. He'd let her near him, close enough to feel her and get a taste of her and now he found himself longing for more. Not only in the sexual sense, to be precise. He wanted everything. Everything from her. As if all of this had not been bad enough already there was his jealousy as well. A feeling that burned him from the inside and slowly ate its way through his system. Everytime Clara would just look at another man. If it was Mister Pink or some stranger or even his younger brother, Mycroft could not stand it. He'd even been jealous of the Doctor. An alien! That was ridiculous! Pathetic! And yet...the way she had looked at him. Mycroft wanted her to look at him this way. He wanted to be worth her trust. He wanted to make her smile. He wanted to occupy a superior position in her life. Biting the inside of his mouth, he shook his head free from those ridiculous thoughts. He would get over it, he had to. There was no other choice.

About two hours later, they were still trapped and still sat in silence. Clara finally gave up on reading for there was no point in reading the same sentence over and over again while she had to make her eyes stay away from him. The situation was unbearable and still they lasted. Both of them too stubborn to make the first move. She stood, her legs numb from two hours complete stillness and walked up the stairs to place back the book. She rounded the control room until she reached the correct bookshelf, right above the stairs Mycroft was sitting on. Looking at the title once more before pushing it back to the others, something came to her mind.

„Did you know that Jane Austen intended to name the story „First Impressions" instead of „Pride and Prejudice"?", she broke the silence. He didn't move. „Yes", he said. She tried a smile. „Maybe would have been a better one. Not for that time of course but for the plot". There was no reaction from him. „Maybe that's what it's all about, first meetings, first impressions...", she went on. „Maybe that's what created our mess". At that he rose to his feet and turned to face her but kept standing at the base of the stairs. When he said nothing, she took one step downwards, her left hand on the handrail. „You treat me like you did at the very beginning", she explained bitterly. „You treat me like a stranger, no, worse you treat me like a stupid stranger." His eyes were fixed on her while he listened to her words, his face motionless. „Is that it?", she asked. „Am I too stupid for you, is that it? Is my average brain too slow for you? Am I...", she hesitated. - _Fear of rejection, fear of not being good enough_

„Am I boring you?", she asked. He let his head drop. „You know you're not. You're much smarter than that", he confessed but she wouldn't believe him. She walked down the stairs until she stood next to him. „Dear God, I never even considered this", she said. „Of course, I am a billion times slower than you. How stupid must I appear to you? I mean, you speak what? 12 languages?". It had supposed to be a joke, a very bad one indeed but her face slipped when he answered dryly: „13, actually".

„Oh my God", she breathed and felt like someone had kicked her in the gut. „I'm stupid, so stupid!".

„We're both stupid, Clara", he suddenly said and looked into her eyes deeply. Without further explanation she knew that he wasn't talking about their IQ difference anymore. „I was stupid enough for both of us already, not thinking about the consequences when it all started". He was sorry. She could tell. Not for what had happened but for the pain it had caused them both. The pain she could see in his eyes now. She didn't dare to touch him right then for she feared that he might withdrew. Not showing his feelings. „You're allowed to make mistakes, Mycroft", she said gently, trying to comfort him. „No, I'm not", he stated and looked away. „Mistakes are the downfall of men like me. And if I fell...", he stopped and his eyes found hers again.

„I imagined myself to be in love", he confessed quietly out of nowhere and she seemed shocked, her mouth slightly open but unable to produce words. Giving her no time to overthink his words, he added: „I know better now" and stepped away from her towards the console, facing the machine. „I have always been quite content on my own and nothing will ever change about that", he declared. „I am not sentimental", he murmered more to himself than to her. Suddenly she appeared next to him. „Why are you doing this?", she asked quietly and he could hear sadness in her voice. „Why are you always going back to your lonliness? Why are you hiding away from those who love you?". Mycroft froze. He couldn't look at her. Not without giving himself away. It would ruin him. It would ruin them both.

In that moment there was a loud _pang! _and the doors swang open. They both looked up in surprise. The Doctor entered with someone behind him. „Great work, detective diva!", he exclaimed. „Now, it has scanned me and will come back in about 72 hours! Perfect!"

Behind him, Sherlock was entering the TARDIS, waving his hands. „Aliens do not exist, so what's the matter? Besides you were not scanning anything you were-", he shut his mouth when he first became aware of his surroundings. He turned and ran straight back out only to came running back inside several seconds later. „But...that's not possi-"

„Don't be stupid, Sherlock", Mycroft said arrogantly and the Doctor finally noticed him. „Oh, what's the king doing here, have you beamed? Clara, did you bring those dull mates?".

„They're brothers", Clara explained.

„Oh, well fantastic, we're having a family evening here with a Skovox Blitzer on the way! Amazing! Know what, why don't I just drop all of you off in northern Spain back in 1588? See if you feel nice about those ships!".

In that moment John appeared at the TARDIS doors. „Anyone here tell me what the...! Wow! Is it? Is it bigger on the-"

„Yes!", everyone inside exclaimed.


	25. The decision night

The decision night

The Doctor had thrown them all out of the TARDIS and while Sherlock and Mycroft were having an heated argument about aliens and impossible things which were not supposed to happen, Clara was busy asking the Doctor about the Skovox Blitzer. John decided to listen to the schoolteacher for he was hoping to understand at least a little bit about what was going on. „So, you said it's gone", Clara said, her heart still racing and her breath faltering. „For now, yes", the Doctor answered. „But thanks to our detective diva over there it'll return within the next 72 hours." He made a rude gesture towards Sherlock who was still arguing with Mycroft. „And then you'll be able to send it back completely?", John cut in. „Shut up!", the Doctor explained without giving John a second glance and turned back to Clara. „I'll be needing you tomorrow to finish this and make sure not to bring any of your foolish friends this time".

„Oi!", John said but the Doctor disappeared back inside the TARDIS immediately. Clara turned to John. „Listen, please take both of them away from here", she said with a glance towards the still fighting brothers. „I need to talk to the Doctor in private". John frowned. „Are you sure he's going to make it? He seems a bit...chaotic". She sighed. „Trust me, we'll work this out." The army doctor did not seem convinced but he nodded. „I do trust you, Clara", he said. „Thing is I don't trust Sherlock not to come back here and get himself into a kind of trouble he's never faced before". She wanted to groan in annoyance. She couldn't watch out for everyone of them. And yet she felt like their mother already. Definitely too much testosterone at once! „Then stay with him!", she hissed. „There's a dangerous alien coming back here within the next three days, sorry but I've got other priorities than looking out for grown men which behave like children!". John looked shocked while Sherlock broke from his fight with his older brother to exclaim: „I can hear you!".

After the Doctor had explained his plan to her, she stood inside the TARDIS and looked up at the ceiling. She found herself standing on a cross-way. The Doctor was back and now he'd finally let her in again. In the end there would be two possibilites and right now she was actually considering to go back to time travel. It was familiar, it was fun. It was amazing and she got to see what nobody else would see. Wonders. „So", the Doctor stood on the opposite side of the console. She couldn't see him properly behind the glass pillar, his face seemed scattered behind it. It was when she realised that she'd lost it. She couldn't see him anymore, not really. And being honest with herself she found that she didn't care. „You and the king, eh?", he asked. Clara frowned briefly before she understood whom he was talking about. She let her head drop but remained silent. „Never thought you'd go with a king", the Doctor stated and Clara felt her stomach drop. „Shut up", she answered quietly. „I'm not with him, not anymore. Actually...", she hesitated. „I'm not sure if I ever was". The Doctor was playing with the latches. „According to the looks the two of you keep throwing at each other like a hot potato you were and you still are". She sighed. There was nothing he didn't notice. Was she really that obvious around Mycroft? „It seems that you and the king have unfinished buisness", the Doctor continued. „It's complicated", she finally said. The Doctor stepped down the base: „You keep saying that. Why do human beings keep saying that? Seems you don't know what you want".

Unfinished buisness, as if the situation between Mycroft and her was anything but. It had seemed that he'd wanted to be left alone again. He'd been repellent to her, almost vile, treating her like an idiot. And then he'd said that one sentence that had shaken her to the bones.

„_I imagined myself to be in love". _Had he been trying to tell her that he was in love with her? On the other hand he'd said that he was fine with being on his own, that he would always be this way. She got a feeling that he was fading away from her and she couldn't let that happen. He would be alone, again. Mycroft Holmes, the most dangerous and most powerful man in England alone in his far too large house with nobody to look after him. That thought made her so sad, it physically hurt. She had to go after him, she had to be there for him. He needed a friend, even though he would never admit it. But here she was, standing in the TARDIS on the doorstep to her old routine. Could she even imagine to go back to this? With this Doctor? Did he even want her around? „Doctor?", she asked and stepped towards the ceiling, looking for him."Where are you going after this?". She heard a loud rapple and a _pang! _before the Doctor answered: „Where, where would I go? Home, of course!"

„Home?", she was confused.

The Doctor's face appeared under her feet. „Oh, right! You don't know that! But I've found Gallifrey!" She was so surprised that she didn't know what to say. „You, you mean..."

„Yes! Got the coordinates from an old friend of mine".

„A friend?", she asked.

„Never mind that", he climbed up the steps back to the console. „I've got to go back home. Sorry to disappoint. No more travels". She looked up at him and even though a part of her was sad, another one was glad for him. „That's fine. I'll be...here I mean, I've got...things".

„I'll finish the Skovox Blitzer off", he said and stepped closer. „After that I'll go home and you should clear things with the king. It's not too late, you know".

„How would you know?", she asked. He crooked his head and smiled. „He likes you, Clara. But you must be sure what it is you want". She swallowed. „I do know what I want but he's...".

„Oh, that's not like you, impossible girl", the Doctor stated. „You never give up. You do not walk away, right?". Clara nodded, she knew what he was talking about. „Sometimes the only choices you've to make are bad ones", he added. „But you still have to choose". His voice had gone very silent but she didn't notice. Someone else was occupying her mind completely in that moment.

„I'll see you tomorrow", she said and was out the door. The Doctor peeked after her and swallowed hard. „To the last hurrah", he murmered to himself.

After the fight with Sherlock, Mycroft had declined three calls of his mother already and found himself back at home, his mind restless. He was running through a thousand possibilities of Clara's departure into the universe. Probably she was on the moon right now, dancing around the Doctor while fighting some aliens. They were worlds apart. And she would still not be safe. At least she would be away from him and Magnussen would not be able to touch her. He'd pushed her away today, he'd followed his plan, it had worked out. He'd made himself clear that he didn't want her around anymore. Just like it was supposed to be. But how could it be right if it made him feel this...miserable? He sighed deeply and sat behind the desk in his private liberary when his phone buzzed. _Clara Oswald calling_

_Oh, for God's sake!_ He declined it and chose not to think about it anymore when it buzzed again. Suppressing an annoyed groan he picked up this time.

„Clara", he stated.

„Okay, listen. I know you don't want to talk to me but I've found that we've got unfinished buisness and I need to clear it."

He hesitated. There was only one way how to end this. „I do not have any interest in such a conversation", he answered coldly but she cut in: „I don't care. Listen, I'll be fighting the alien with the Doctor tomorrow but I won't join him again after that. I have a life here. And there are wonders here, on Earth. I'm staying. Tomorrow will be my last adventure with him ever. I just...I wanted you to know that and...when all this is over I need to talk to you once more."

She was trying to tell him something. Something she could not tell him over the phone. She felt a strong need to see him again, even though she'd already accepted his decision as it seemed. She wanted a break, a cut. Final, ultimate.

„I think we had no proper goodbye", she went on. „So, there's good times for a goodbye". He didn't know what to say. He hadn't expected this from her. And now his mind seemed to let him down. He couldn't think. All he could do in that moment was to feel a pain that burned deep. It took his breath away. „Mycroft?", she asked gently. „Are you still there?". He cleared his throat.

„Yes. I agree. I will see you at your place if you don't mind."

„Sunday evening, 9 pm?", she suggested.

„I'll be there".

„Goodnight, Mycroft".

He didn't answer and ended the call. Whatever she was hoping to gain through this he was sure it would be another test for his camouflage. And it was going to be very hard.


	26. The lost night

The lost night

Clara was just talking to one of her students' mother on parents evening when Danny, sitting on the table next to hers cleared his throat very loudly. A look towards the door had shown her the Doctor with a huge bagpack on, gesturing wildly behind the glass. From that moment on her day had been adventurous and she'd nearly been shot by a very angry Skovox Blitzer. But the Doctor had finally managed it in the end. The planet was safe once again.

„So", the Doctor said after they'd carried the now shot down alien into the TARDIS. „Off to one last trip to see the stars?". He smiled at her expectantly. Her first impulse had been saying yes, of course but she stopped herself. It felt different. The joy, the anticipation. It had slightly faded and Clara felt a strong need to see someone who grounded her. Like her father, or Danny, or...

She shook her head. „No, not this time", she smiled. „I mean, I had my last adventure with you today and that's it". The Doctor's brow arched. „You go home", she went on. „And I have a life here, people who make me feel at home". „The king, you mean", the Doctor said, turning towards the console. Her smile grew automatically and she casted her eyes downwards. „He's not a king", she answered. „He works for the government, just like Kate!"

The Doctor mumbled something under his breath, not looking at her. „Sorry?", she asked.

„Why would you go with a king?"

„He's a politician and...I like him".

„Obviously", he turned back to face her. „But what do you know about him, basically?".

„Quite a lot", she said.

„Really? Well, what about his job? His family? Does he own a gun?".

„Doctor, what are you doing?", she smiled, slightly amused.

„You don't know him at all, Clara".

„Oh, but you do?".

„Men like him are all the same. I've seen plenty of them over decades. They use you, they manipulate you, so you feel sorry or even attracted to them.", he hesitated and took a step towards her, his hands in his pockets. Clara crooked her head to one side. He almost looked worried. „And you're basic proof that it still works on people." At that she almost laughed. „Excuse me. He didn't manipulate me in any way." The Doctor snorted and went up the stairs to his books. Clara followed him. „I went to him on my own free will, Doctor", she pressed.

„Yeah, that's what they all think", came the answer. „You think yourselves untoucheable and perfectly safe, that you got it all under control until it's too late. And then all of a sudden you find yourself deep inside the spider's web, trapped, unable to escape and a part of you will tell you that you should have known from the start. That there has always been that feeling when being around that person. That mixture of fear and admiration. You think you know him and then he does something you'd have never expected and it shakes you to the bones." Clara swallowed and her hand rose, seeking for steadiness on the ceiling. She knew what the Doctor was talking about. „And you like it", he went on. „The lingering tension between you and him, so tempting and dangerous that you want it to last forever".

She shook her head free of the memories that came to her at his words and he smiled knowingly. However, she knew that he was worried about her safety. So, she gave him a smile. „I'm gonna be fine", she said and pulled him in for a hug. She felt his body tense up in response and he froze in place immediately. „Why don't you like hugging, Doctor?". She didn't know why she'd asked him. It was just a thought. „Never trust a hug", he answered dryly. „It's just a way to hide your face".

Clara hummed in agreement before she let go of him and walked back down towards the console. She stopped at the doors, looking back at him, knowing that he wouldn't follow her outside. His gaze was locked to the floor when she spoke. „Doctor", he looked up. „Traveling with you made me feel really special", she explained. „Thank you for that. Thank you for making me feel special".

He seemed lost for words for a second before he answered: „Thank you for exactly the same".

She smiled. He smiled. And then she stepped outside and didn't turn around once more when she heard the familiar noice of the TARDIS taking off.

When she came home that evening she couldn't fight the urge to look out the window up to the moon. And for the briefest moment, she'd thought to see a small blue box there. She smiled. „Goodbye, Doctor".

Pushing a mountain of paper work aside, Mycroft sank back in his chair with a sigh. Even though it was Sunday he'd decided to keep his mind busy for at least 8 hours. He'd had to authorize three different international operations, had a meeting with Mallory and other security members and he'd been perfectly focused all the time. While the back of his mind was running wild in theories about the upcoming evening at Clara's. What could she possibly want to tell him? Would there be accusations that he'd used her? Betrayed her? Would she cry this time? Would she give him his umbrella back? Whatever she'd decide to do, Mycroft knew he did deserve it. He had been a fool. A fool to think that she would not change him, not get to him in a certain way. His fingers went to his jacket pocket and pulled out a photograph. It was one of the pictures Magnussen had presented him the other day, referring to the young school teacher as Mycroft's pressure point. As if she was anything but. The photograph was proof enough for his foolishness. Clara's smile was captured in it. A polite, yet honest smile she was giving a waitor in a café. Mycroft considered to tear it apart, burn it, to blow the ashes in the wind. To bury and wipe out his obvious weakness. But it didn't matter. It wasn't about a picture of her. It was about the solid space she occupied inside his mind. She had rooted herself deep into his system and it would take plenty of time to get her out again. Sooner or later he would come to the only logical conclusion that it had been a stupid idea, a dream he'd finally woken up from. How could he even have thought of being good enough for her? It seemed that his bare presence casted a cloud over her light being. And ever since they had met she'd been trying to fight his shadows. But they would always win in the end. Mycroft not only had shadows. He had demons. Dark reminders of his past deeds and the ones which were about to come. And now he would have to protect a criminal, a professional blackmailer, a mastermind himself to keep her safe at least. Protect Magnussen against his little brother. A part of Mycroft knew that he couldn't keep this up forever. Maybe Magnussen would get bored and leave it. A foolish hope for a foolish man, he thought. There was no solution. And he couldn't breathe a whisper of this all to anyone. Least of all her. He leant forward and sipped at his already cold tea. It tasted bitter even though he'd two sugars in it. His pocket watch told him that he'd about 4 hours left before she would expect him to turn up on her doorstep. He took the photograph back inside his jacket pocket and went back to work. His shoulder was still aching from the powerful armtwist Sherlock had given him yesterday. _Unwise, brother mine_. He had underestimated his brother's recklessness when he was on drugs. He'd always been a rebel but never really physically violent, at least not against Mycroft. That was why the politician had been almost shocked after the younger one had let go off him again. He'd considered to say something more but the detective had obviously been beyond the state of rational conversation then. And the cause for this mess had been Charles Augustus Magnussen. _You go against Magnussen, and you'll find yourself going against me._ Protect Magnussen, protect Clara. He had a deal with the criminal, and for Clara's safety he would stick to it. Even if that meant to go against his own brother.

Her original plan of preparing Monday's lesson had not worked out. She failed to concentrate. So, instead she'd decided to sit on her couch with a good book but soon found herself nervously tapping her foot and glancing at the clock over and over again. With an annoyed groan she let the book drop into her lap and throw her head back against the pillows. While she kept staring at the ceiling she tried to calm down. To remind herself of what she was going to say and how. This was their final goodbye, they'd agreed and she would have to make sure that all the words, quite chaotic in her head would find their way out of her mouth in the correct order. Actually, Clara knew that conversations didn't work like that but she had a plan and she would at least try to fulfill it. Looking around her living room, she found that it seemed quite messy. She stood, the book forgotten and went to fetch the hoover.

She spent the following hours, dusting her apartement, doing the dishes, grading her books, and sorting some magazines. When she looked at the clock the next time it was ten minutes to nine pm. Finally, well, no, she remembered that she didn't even have lunch today. She took a deep breath when she felt her heart beat speed up at the mere thought of the knock on her door. Mycroft would be punctual which meant that he probably was just calling the car. Shaking her head, she looked around her space again and nodded to herself before she went to her bedroom, sitting down in front of her mirror. She brushed her hair carefully and put some light perfume on, not wanting to appear to obvious when she realised that he would notice nonetheless. He noticed everything. Staring at her reflection she put her cold hands against her cheeks, finding them very warm and slightly blushed. One last time she was running through her text she'd written out in full in her mind. It would all be fine. She would let it out and he would leave and it would all be like it had been at the very beginning. Before Sherlock had faked his death. Before she'd started to visit him on Sunday evenings. Before she had gotten to know him. And before she had started to like him, really like him. Finding her eyes way too large for the rest of her face, she closed them and listened to the strong beat of her heart.

Mycroft had been sitting inside the car for about fifteen minutes before time allowed him to finally step out and walking towards her door. It was ridiculous! There had been no need to be that early, of course not. Clearing his throat which felt curiously thick, he knocked firmly. It took her about 3.4 seconds to open the door. She was wearing lipstick and a marine blue button-down dress, her hair brushed down and she had refreshed her perfume only minutes ago. „Hi", she tried a smile but felt that she would fail, so she turned her back on him and let him inside. - _Nervous, anxious, almost distressed._

He closed the door, his eyes never leaving her and when she turned back to face him, she looked sad. „You said goodbye to him", he stated.

„Yes", she answered, trying to seem as convincing as possible. „The Doctor's gone".

„And that is fine with you", he deduced. He wouldn't have gone so far to say that she was glad but somehow she was reliefed. She had made her decision. But why?

„I told you, I won't travel with him again", she said, then she remembered her plan and called up her words. „Listen, I meant what I said. I've got a life here with my job, my family, my friends. About four years ago I started to run with the Doctor and all I ever wanted to do back then was to travel. I wanted to see the world. But then, life happened and I stayed with the Maitland family because I couldn't leave the kids after their mother's death. And then, there was this impossible man with a spaceship, saying that he wanted to show me the universe. Suddenly I could have both, you know? I could stay and run away at the same time. I could travel across the universe, across time. I could see foreign planets at any possible decade. And when he came back this week I was offered the opportunity again, well, somehow". She blinked, reminding herself that he would be safe at Gallifrey by now. „Anyway", she went on. „I realised that the Doctor was a hobby, really. But at some point it felt like running away. Running from my life and my duties." Mycroft listened to her words without a move. He hadn't even got out of his coat. Then, she realised that she hadn't offered him a seat or a drink. All rude she had been. But now, she wasn't sure if she should offer at all. He didn't seem comfortable and it was likely that he didn't want to stay any longer than necessary. Trying to find her point again, she closed her eyes briefly and felt herself blushing. „Um, what I'm trying to tell you is that I undertstand. I understand now. I know you don't want me around anymore and I'll accept it." He gave her a doubtful look and took a step towards her. She let him. „It's okay", she reinforced her words with another nod. „I'm ready now. This is goodbye".

She was serious. He could tell. And yet, even though this was just about saying goodbye, Clara seemed to prepare herself for a punch in the face, or some other physical pain that was about to fall upon her. And it would be him to cause it, again. Mycroft felt sick and somehow afraid to ever have to look in a mirror again. If there was one thing he would remember of this evening it would be the guilt, clinging to his chest, heavy and unforgiving. He nodded and was about to turn towards the door and run when she held him back on his arm. She presented the umbrella, which he had completely forgotten about. It was folded but Mycroft could tell that she had carried it with her almost daily, she'd even polished the wooden handle. He couldn't say why he had left it to her back that night. Maybe as a reminder. A reminder that he had been with her and would be again if she wanted. But that was yesterday. And yesterday was long gone now. „I thought, well...I thought you'd like it back, after all". She smiled in a sad way and handed the umbrella over. „Thank you", he said dryly. When he accepted it from her, their fingers touched just above the handle. Her skin was soft and cool against his and his mind wandered on its own accord. It was then when Mycroft couldn't help himself any longer and let his thumb stroke the back of her hand. One last touch. He kept his gaze locked on their hands while he could feel her eyes on his face.

His touch was soft and so warm against her skin. Looking up at him, she found him quite close but his eyes glued to their hands. She could feel his body heat, smell his cologne and felt herself slowly beginning to turn lightheaded. _„And then all of a sudden you find yourself deep inside the spider's web, trapped, unable to escape and a part of you will tell you that you should have known from the start. That there has always been that feeling when being around that person. That mixture of fear and admiration." _The Doctor's words echoed inside her head and she realised that he had been right. Clara wondered whether this feeling would last forever or it would fade someday. No matter how often she told herself to be strong, she found herself helpless in front of him again. He still had her. „I should leave", Mycroft whispered and withdrew his hand slowly, his gaze dropped. „Yeah", she breathed and before she knew what she was doing she'd gotten on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek softly. She knew that he was trying his best to keep his armour in place but there was a quiet hitch in his breath, the moment her lips made contact with his skin, long enough for her to notice. When she leant back again, his eyes found hers.


	27. The danger night

The danger night

_When she leant back again, his eyes found hers. They were scanning her, searching whatever and Mycroft's hands found their way up to her face, cupping it gently. She felt warm and dazed at once. His touch was transferring her into a state of calmness, utterly peaceful. There was nobody able to get past him. She was safe with him. His eyes studied every inch of her face, as if he was trying to make sure. He then leant in and kissed her. Softly. It was unhurried. The taste of tea was lingering on his tongue and his lips. It was enticing and her mind seemed to close down. Clara felt her heart stop when he slowly started walking her backwards until she felt the wall against her back. _

When she opened her eyes, she found herself laying on a cold and metal floor. She didn't know what had woken her up in fact but she remembered her dream immediatly. Yes, it had been a dream. Sitting up she looked around and tried to figure out where she was. It was an empty room, with no windows. Trying to make sense of the situation, she focused on her memory. Mycroft had come to see her, for saying goodbye in fact and they had. She remembered giving the umbrella back, their hands had touched. He'd said something about leaving and she'd kissed his cheek. And then he'd turned and walked out the door, without looking back. Clara stood and looked around the room which was about as large as her living room. Slowly, her memory came back to her. Mycroft had been gone for about ten minutes when she'd heard the door bell. A foolish part of her had hoped it for being him, again. When she'd opened it there had been two strange, dark-dressed men, one of them greeting her with her name and the other moving closer to her, fast. The next thing she remembered was a biting pain on the side of her neck and her body going numb. Clara's hand flew to her neck, searching for the spot while she stood. Looking around she found no signs of a door. „Okay", she said out loud even though there was nobody there to hear it. She did not have her phone with her, she realised. _So, what to do? _She scanned the ceiling when suddenly there was a loud, metallic noise, right underneath her, as it seemed. Looking down, she found that the floor was...moving, up! It stopped as soon as it had started but Clara could tell from the light sway that it had just happened. There! Another metallic noise. Her head snapped up and she watched another movement. This time it was the wall. It made a small movement in her direction, then stopped again. Then the opposite wall did the same. And then, Clara saw a electronic clock, projected onto one of the remaining, unmoving walls. It started at 45 minutes...and was counting down the seconds. „Well,", she said to herself. „This is not good". She walked over to the projected clock and banged her hands against it. „Help! Help, anybody, help me!".

He sat in his office, on this early Sunday morning. He had not been able to sleep, anyway. Checking a few files would at least keep him focused so he wouldn't have to think about her and their goodbye. She had been playing with him again, kissing his cheek...and his body had literally been singing in response to hers! It had taken his everything not to pull her close and press his mouth against hers. He had been strong-minded enough to leave right after her kiss, he'd walked straight out of the door, had gotten into the car again and had arrived home a few minutes later, his heart still racing and his breath still too heavy. It had been enticing. She was like the sun and he was a silly small planet orbiting around her, fixed in place, unable to escape. He had felt the strong, almost natural urge to pull her into his arms, to kiss her until she was fainting from the lack of oxygen. But he had made a step back, even though he'd felt magnetically drawn to her. Mycroft had spent the night in his library, seeking recourse in his dear order and familiar silence. It had not been calming, or reassuring, or helpful in any way. At least it had not been disturbing. The idea of benunmbing himself with any sort of legal or illegal drugs had crossed his mind more than once. But he couldn't risk to fall into an addiction like his brother had. Sherlock was living proof that addiction was a swamp of pain and desperation one could not easily escape again. So, he would do what he always did. He would work. He would do his thinking, safe Queen and country, win necessary wars and have certain people killed.

Time passed incredibly slowly, he found. It was way past lunch time and he still had not gotten to eat something. He just couldn't. It was when Anthea came in, that he snapped back into reality only to drift off again, as soon as she was out the door. His mind was turning and twisting and he felt that he was losing control. Mycroft just thought that he might have gotten a serious illness when his phone buzzed. A text, from Magnussen.

**'Till in the stillness of one dawn  
Still in its mystic crown  
The muse she went down to the lake  
And in the waves she drowned**

**And now to see your love set free  
You will need the witch's cabin key  
Find the lady of the light gone mad with the night  
That's how you reshape destiny **

It was a code. That was for sure. But that text could mean anything. He had just decided to google it when the door of his office swang open and Sherlock stormed inside. The younger brother looked stressed, almost terrified. „Clara's missing", he exclaimed. Anthea came in behind him and Mycroft came to his feet very slowly. He knew that face from his PA. „Sir", she started. Mycroft let his phone drop.

Clara had counted the seconds. The walls and the floor only moved within a time span of one minute and not very far each time but they kept on getting closer to her. By now, she was still able to walk around in the room, but soon, the clock wouldn't be seeable anymore and the ceiling was moving closer as well. In her desperation, she had pulled off her jumper she was wearing above her dress and had stuffed in underneath one of the walls but it was still moving. Soon, she wouldn't be able to stretch out her arms. For once in her life, Clara was glad for being not the tallest person. „Help!", she called over and over but she had no idea where she was or if there were any human beings around. „I'm in here! Help me!". The left wall was moving again and she found herself on the verge of tears. How was she supposed to get out of this? She thought of her father, of Sherlock and John. She thought of Danny, sweet Danny Pink whom had never been her type. And she thought of Mycroft. What would he do? „Think, think, think!", she told herself loudly and put her fingers to her temples. „How are you going to survive? Come on, win!". She thought of the Doctor but there was no sonic screwdriver around and no TARDIS to materialize out of nowhere to carry her away. _There must be a way out of this! Maybe there's a door in the ceiling..._

„This is your fault", Sherlock said, his arms crossed. Mycroft turned, his eyes burning with rage. „Pardon?", he asked as calmy as he could. „Obvious. This wouldn't have happened if you'd have stayed away from her. First John, now Clara! Magnussen's threatening me through my friends and you're still defending him!".

Mycroft sat down on his notebook again, tracing any possible sign of Clara Oswald over CCTV. There were no results, she was gone. And he wasn't able to find her, him! The British government himself! He felt fear boiling in his stomach, his chest felt narrow as he was trying to fight the upcoming panic. His mind was letting him down. He couldn't think. He couldn't focus. „He's not threatening you!", he yelled suddenly, and his younger brother stopped talking immediately. Mycroft had not been listening what Sherlock had said actually but it didn't matter for the younger one's features were enlighted by a knowing glow. „You", he stated. Despite the situation, Sherlock's mouth twitched slightly, that arrogant face he made when he was right about something. „So, this is it", he said dryly, his face back to normal. „This is you...failing". Mycroft clenched his fists so hard it hurt. His lips started to tremble. „Shut up", he hissed dangerously quiet. But Sherlock didn't seem to hear him. „You cannot even admit it now, can you? The fact that you care. That someone got you". The detective put his hands on the desk, slightly leaning forward. Mycroft felt like punching him in his arrogant face. „I said shut up, Sherlock". „She's dying", adressed one stated and turned, his hands on his back. „Whatever Magnussen is doing to her, she's not supposed to make it out alive". The politician felt his jaw clenching while his fists were shaking with both anger and fear. Fear. It felt like he would be choking on it. Suddenly Sherlock was standing right in front of him, eye to eye, bringing him back to the moment. „Come on, brother mine", Sherlock whispered. „Let's play something different. Let's play Find Clara".


	28. The final night

The final night

His phone rang and he picked up immediately. It was his brother. "Good". Mycroft Holmes put the phone down on the desk and folded his hands beneath his chin. Anthea entered his office through the left open door. She stood next to her boss without a word. She knew. The silence that filled the wing of the subterranean building was different from the usual silence down here. It was heavier, colder. His PA didn't even dare to breathe properly and neither did he. When the politician finally spoke his voice was nothing but a whisper, thinner and more fleeting than the smoke of a cigarette. "He found her". It was a statement. Simple and true. Anthea was sure that it was supposed to sound reassuring and calmative but Mycroft's posture was telling a different story. He looked shaken, his eyes staring on the screen of his notebook on the blinking red light signalising Clara Oswald's localisation. They had made it. The Holmes brothers had figured out Magnussen's plan and Sherlock had run off to save her. The detective had just left when Mycroft had received another message from the blackmailer, telling him that "the walls were getting closer" and that she had minutes only. And now Sherlock had called him to tell him that he had made it and that she was fine. She was alright. But Mycroft was not relieved. He was not glad or thankful. The most powerful man in England was deeply in shock.

Anthea's voice reached his ears. "She's fine, Sir. She's safe now". He heard her words but found himself unable to react to them. A part of his brain was blocking every effect from the outside and shot itself off from the rest of the world. "I love her". The words tumbled out of his mouth on their own accord, his lips cold and numb against his folded hands. A confession. A truth and a fact he had been aware of for a long time now but never had the strength to actually name it. At least not out loud. "I love her", he repeated, his voice still so quiet that he could pretend his PA didn't hear it. It was new. It was frightening. It was astonishing. He wanted to rip the words apart and drown them in the deepest ocean. He wanted to forget. More than anything else he wished for the bravery to delete every data inside his mind palace that was applieing to Clara Oswald. His chin was beginning to shake and he gritted his teeth to keep control. When he felt Anthea's hand on his shoulder (a gesture of comfort), he let his eyes fall shut and remembered how to breathe.

As the walls were coming closer, she tried her best to reach the ceiling. She held herself up between them with her arms and feet, trying to stop them from moving further at the same time. But it didn't work. The electric clock was out of sight and she knew that she had minutes only. The ceiling was far away and as she tried to move upwards, her elbows ached and her knees were about to give way any second. She had to get out! She needed to save herself! The walls moved further and Clara reached up in desperation, in search for a hold but failed and in the next moment she was falling down. She hit the metal floor and when she stood up, her right ankle ached painfully. She cried out and postured herself with her back against the first wall and her left foot against the opposite one. "Help!", she screamed again. "I'm in here! Somebody help me!". The noice of the upmoving floor made her whimper in fear and her eyes began to fill with tears. She would not cry now! No, she couldn't afford to lose her focus right now! "Get a grip!", she whispered to herself. "There must be a way out of this". Closing her eyes, she tried to breathe but her chest felt narrow, the fear was about to choke her. It was when she almost accepted her certain death when she thought to hear her name. "Clara!". Was it a dream? "Clara!". There it was again! Her name. Clear and loud. Somebody was calling her name...and that person was close. "Help!", she called back and slammed her palms against the metal walls. "Help me, I'm in here!".

"Clara!". It was Sherlock, she realised. Sherlock had come to save her. "Sherlock!".

"Clara!". He was right above her, she could tell. "Sherlock, down here! I'm down here! Can you hear me?!". She heard a rattle and the walls moved closer still. "It's okay, I'm here. Stay where you are, don't move", his voice instructed her. "Hurry or I won't be able to move ever again!", she screamed. About 30 seconds later a loop in the ceiling was pulled open and Sherlock was looking down at her. When she saw his face, she let her head fall back against the wall and closed her eyes, the fear slowly fading away. "I've stopped the machine", Sherlock said and reached out his hand. "You'll have to jump up if I'm supposed to pull you over". Rolling her eyes, Clara decided to focus on breathing normally.

Of course he had called an ambulance just in case. Sherlock had lifted her up in his arms and carried her out of a huge empty factory building, maybe somewhere in West London. Clara had her arms flung around his neck, her face pressed against his shoulder. She was hungry, she realised when her stomach gave her a very loud reminder of not even having lunch yesterday. Her ankle hurt but apart from that she was fine. She was alive. "Thank you, Sherlock", she said, her voice still slightly shaking. He nodded sharply but didn't say anything. When he sat her down on the barrow the ambulance men had brought, her vision changed to black and she fell onto her back, tumbleig into sleep.

Sherlock had talked to John on the phone, telling him that he had successfully saved Clara and that apart from a twisted ankle and a possible claustrophobia in the future she was well. When he put his phone back into his jacket pocket and turned back towards the ambulance he saw his brother standing in front of the open doors, watching her sleeping form. Quietly, he stood next to him, looking him up and down. Mycroft had forgotten his coat and umbrella, his tie was askew, his waistcoat wrong buttoned, his hair almost wild and his hands burrowed in his pockets. The detective had never seen his older brother like this before, so distressed, so utterly confused. "She's fine", the younger one muttered under his breath, not knowing what he was trying to imply. Of course, Mycroft could see that she was fine! Said one had not moved, his eyes glued to Clara's face. Sherlock did the same. She looked pale but peaceful like this. "It's horrible, isn't it?", he asked quietly. "Caring. You're afraid. You're actually afraid that you won't be there in time, that you might be too late". His brother's face was giving him nothing but Sherlock knew that it was burning underneath Mycroft's surface – the guilt, the fear. "You almost feel ashamed, don't you? That somebody can be that important to you. You're assailable. Seems that you were right: caring's a disadvantage, brother dear". Mycroft moved. He turned his back on her sleeping form and stretched his back, still not looking at Sherlock. His body looked wrecked. He was shattered. "She will be asking questions", he stated. "Tell her a story she will buy". Sherlock couldn't help but snort. "What, the great Mycroft Holmes won't take credit for his heroic deed?". He smirked foolishly but froze when his brother turned to look at him, his eyes cold. "Just do it", he hissed and bared his clenched teeth, obviously close to the edge of madness. All Sherlock could do was nod. Mycroft was not himself anymore. He didn't know this broken shell of man standing in front of him. What had happened to him? Searching his brother's face for any sign of physical pain or drug influence, Sherlock found nothing. The mask of the Iceman was still in place but it was crushed, the different pieces of it not fitting together anymore. Was that what caring could do to somebody? The politician turned to leave when they heard Clara's soft sigh. "Mycroft". Looking back at her, Sherlock found her still fast asleep, murmering his brother's name. The other Holmes was standing frozen as if being struck by lightning. He turned his head halfway to one side and hesitated for exactly 3.4 seconds before Sherlock saw him swallow hard. Then he walked to his car and got in without looking back.

"So, Magnussen sent you a code?", Clara's eyes were showing him doubt but Sherlock knew he could make her believe him. She trusted him. "Yes. And I figured it out just like I did with John". She furrowed her brows. "But how could you localise me out there? How could you be-".

"Fingers!".

"I'm sorry?".

"I need a pair of fingers, let's go!".


	29. Epilogue

Epilogue

Several months later….

A wonderful joint with potatoes and vegetables had been prepared for him in the Diogenes Club but he went straight home after the last meeting with the PM. Even though his stomach was protesting Mycroft Holmes wasn't feeling hungry. That was a first in six years. The last time he had not had any appetite had been after he'd broken his right hand battering his brother's former dealer. Sherlock had overdosed that night...and flatlined for the first time. Mycroft had broken at least eight different bones in the man's body and had left him to rot in a side road, not caring about this tiny, pathetic, wasted life. That night, Anthea had prooven herself to be worth his trust. She'd called for intern help for the man, had cleaned the scene of crime, had removed any trace her boss could have left and of course had been ready to give him an alibi. That night, he'd gone home with his hand bandaged and his pulse racing. It had taken him much more effort to look in a mirror than he'd expected. He'd been afraid of the monster that would be looking back at him, staring at him out of his own eyes. It was obvious what he'd become and that was fine with him for he couldn't change it. He had gotten emotional. Mycroft was having the same feeling tonight again. Only he hadn't broken any parts of his or someone else's body. The sooner he'd accept the truth the better for him. Sherlock and Clara were both alive and as long as he would indulge Magnussen they'd both be safe. And for his enemy was at least not a terrorist England would be safe as well.

He sat down in the dim light of a reading lamp in his library and put two fingers against his temple. He was getting a headache again. The house was silent as usual. It was heavy and cold. The politician knew that silence could be loud. Not the silence itself but the noises inside his head. Those were voices of doubt, of guilt and the sound of memories. Again, for the second time in months Mycroft wished for an average mind that would be able to forget.

Clara poured herself another cup of tea and sat down on the armchair in the living room of 221B Baker Street. Sherlock was laying on the couch, still recovering from the gunshot wound Mary Watson had caused. The schoolteacher had volunteered to take a few days off from work, taking care of the detective. He'd relapsed, used morphine much too often and therefor his friends would not leave him alone in his flat. And after they'd learned about Mary's past, John and his wife had a lot to talk and to think about. The fact that she was pregnant with John's child had not been very helpful. It was a shock that Mary had shot her best friend and had been lying to all of them but Clara believed that she did love John. And she really wished for them to stay together. It was so hard to find someone in this world, she knew. Well, for her part she'd thought she had found someone but she'd obviously been wrong. She had not seen Mycroft since their official goodbye. He hadn't even come to check up on her after the Magnussen incident. "Stop thinking about my brother", Sherlock murmered with closed eyes. "I can literally feel his presence in the room and I need to rest". Clara suppressed a sigh and fetched him a cup of tea. "Sorry", she whispered and shook her head, trying to chase away the memories. It was over. It was time to forget about Mycroft Holmes. Carefully, Sherlock sat up and sipped his tea. His face was pale, his expression worn out and there were deep circles beneath his eyes. He looked old. "So, you're going to spend Christmas at your parents' then?". She needed to change the subject. Her devision was keep talking and keep her mind busy with things she liked. "I'm afraid so", Sherlock answered. "They're quite alarmed about the whole getting-shot-thing". Clara couldn't help but smile. The detective still refused to understand what the fuss was all about. "They love you", she stated. "Perfectly normal reaction". At that Sherlock looked up at her, studying her face. Then suddenly something flashed in his eyes and his face brightened up for a few seconds as if he'd just discovered the solution for a problem he'd been bothering himself with for a long time. "Why don't you join us for Christmas?". She blinked. "I'm sorry?".

"Yes, great idea! John and Mary will be there, too". For a moment she felt like somebody had kicked her in the gut. Joining Sherlock's family for Christmas sounded wonderful on the one hand but on the other hand...

"Don't you think that Mycroft will be-"

"You're one of my best friends", Sherlock caught in enthusiastically. "I can bring my friends for Christmas if I want to". The wheels in her head began turning. How was she supposed to get out of this inappropriate, bizarre and awkward situation? "I really don't-"

"My mother will be delighted. Yes, greath idea! I'll phone them!". And with that, he hopped off the sofa a bit too quickly and dialed his parent's number on his phone. When he had vanished behind the door of his bedroom, Clara let herself sink down on the sofa with a heavy sigh. Still wondering about the fact that Sherlock phoned his parents on his own free will she buried her face in her hands. It's gonna be a wonderful Christmas, then!

THE END

(to be continued in _Bearable Christmas_)

Thanks for reading!


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